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ABOVE
THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOKS BY HUGH WALPOLE
NOVELS
The London Novels
FORTITUDE
THE DUCHESS OF WREXE
THE GREEN' MIRROR
THE CAPTIVES
THE YOUNG ENCHANTED
WINTERSMOON
HANS FROST
Scenes from Provincial Life
THE CATHEDRAL
THE OLD LADIES
HARMER JOHN
Scenes from Country Life
ROGUE HERRIES
JUDITH PARIS (In Preparation)
_ - i ^ •• • ■ ^
THE WOODEN HORSE
MR. PERRIN AND MR. TRAILL
THE DARK FOREST
THE SECRET CITY
THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
MARAD1CK AT FORTY
PORTRAIT OF A MAN WITH RED
HAIR
ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
JEREMY
JEREMY AND HAMLET
JEREMY AT CIIALE
THE GOLDEN SCARECROW
THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS
THE SILVER THORN
BELLES-LETTRES
JOSEPH CONRAD: A Critical Stu.ly
ANTHONY TROLLOPE (.English Men
0 / Letters)
TnE CRYSTAL DOS
THE ENGLISH NOVEL (Re«lo Lec¬
ture)
READING : An Essay
(With J. R. P11IKSTI.BV)
FARTHING 1IA1.L: A Novel in
Letters
ABOVE
THE DARK CIRCUS
AN ADVENTURE
BY —
HUGH WALPOLE
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
' MAR TIN’S STREET, LONDON
I93 1
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PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
R. CLARK. LIMITED, EDINBURGH
BY R. *
FOR
MY FRIEND
WALTER BRISCOE
CITY LIBRARIAN
OF
NOTTINGHAM
‘This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened lips parted, the hope, the new ships.’
T. S. Eliot.
My dear Walter,
I hope that you will not take this
Tale too seriously. Once before I had a holiday
and wrote a story about a Red-Haired Man and
have been distressed ever since at the scientific
remarks made about that gentleman!
Now again, in the middle of investigation into
the Herries family, I have taken a holiday and
enjoyed myself over something that is a tale and
nothing but a tale. The second volume of the
‘ Herries ’ chronicles will be published in the
autumn.
Meanwhile a momentary vision that I had of
a room high above the leaping lights of Piccadilly
has betrayed me into sheer story-telling. I know
that you are a regular schoolboy for stories and
therefore I have great pleasure in giving this one
to you.
Affectionately,
HUGH WALPOLE
IX
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAP.
I. The Barber ....
II. Spindle-shanks in a Dark Garden
III. Osmund
• • •
IV. The Tea-shop.
V. Pengelly on Earth .
VI. Pencelly in Heaven
• •
VII. Extraordinary Adventures of a Corpse
BOOK II
VIII. Shadow Pursuinc
IX. Helen .
X. The Curate .
XI. The Sandwich Bar
XII. Affirmers: Deniers .
XIII. The Party ....
XIV. From the Stars Down
PAGE
3
21
. 42
. 6l
. 82
. 101
. I 19
• H3
. 162
. 179
. 201
. 223
• 241
. 256
X 2
CHAPTER I
THE BARBER
I am aware, I fancy, of most of the dangers of
narrative in the first person, but it appears to me
that there is no other possible method for this
particular story.
Swiftly following though the incidents of it
were, and involving a number of persons besides
myself in very definite dangers, it is not the in¬
cidents that seem to me now, after nearly five
years’ interval, to be of importance, but rather the
implications that lay behind them, and especially
the implications in Osmund’s purpose.
The chief peril, I suppose, that lurks behind
narrative in the first person is that of incredulity.
How can anyone remember so clearly and repeat
so accurately these conversations? Yes, but one
doesn’t either remember clearly or repeat accu¬
rately. One gives the gist of the thing, the spirit of
it rather than the letter. Then, further, as to the
scenes that one did not oneself witness. Well, in
this present adventure, there is, as will afterwards
be clear, only one scene at which I was not myself
present, and here my informant is so close to
myself that it makes no matter.
3
4 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS book i
For the rest I, and I alone, can give you, as I
think, the point of it all, for I, and I alone, should
see it from every angle—yes, from that dizzy
catastrophe (for it was a catastrophe) under the
guttering candles, from that bizarre procession
with the loathsome Pengelly, his hat over his eyes,
held up under each arm, to that last scene up
among the chimney-pots. ...
This is a pretty portentous beginning. I
hadn’t intended to start seriously at all, but quite
simply with my name and address, so to speak.
My name is Richard Gunn. I was born in
the town of Totnes, April 4, 1884. When this
adventure began I was standing, naked to the
world, save for one half-crown, about five o’clock
on a December afternoon, in Piccadilly Circus,
wondering what would happen next.
And here I hope you will excuse me for
vagueness in the matter of the year. Indeed, I will
ask your permission to change the names, not only
of persons, but of buildings and addresses in
general. Not that it matters very much. There
is no one left who can object very strongly, but I
like to allow myself that amount of licence. You
can trace the places for yourself if you like. They
are all, as you will see, within a stone’s throw from
one another. The Circus dominated us first and
last and all the time, played perhaps a bigger part
in the adventure than did any of us individually. I
don’t know. That’s for you afterwards to decide.
As to the year, it was after the war and after
Eros was removed from its pedestal. Where
Eros had been, I remember, was the point at which
THE BARBER
CHAP. I
I was especially staring as I stood on the edge of
the kerb, wondering what would happen next.
I had several alternatives in my mind—one
was suicide, another robbery, another something
not very far from murder. And yet I was not in
myself in any way a desperate character—not, prob¬
ably, desperate enough. I never have been. I was
only very cold, very hungry and very hopeless.
My position was in no way a peculiar one
at that time. Many another soldier shared it.
Before the war I had held for many years a job
as land agent in my own county of Devon. Join-
ing up in 1914, I had trusted to a six months’
conflict and the resumption of my job again, but
Harry Carden, my employer and close personal
friend, was dead, and his estate sold, long before
the fighting was over. I had saved during the
war a sufficiency, and in 1918 had invested it,
with a brother-officer, in a pair of charabancs.
The charabancs failed—we had not perhaps pre¬
cisely the right talent for charabancs. I was,
after that, secretary to an impatient peeress,
secretary to a night club, companion to a deaf
and dumb gentleman, assistant in Mr. Swell-
m-the-head s Stores and seller-in-ordinary for
rletcher’s Patent Fountain Pens. Whatever I
touched failed, whatever touched me crumbled
to rum—so here I was on this December afternoon
in the year such-and-such, with exactly one half-
crown in my pocket, no food in my belly and the
bitterest cold in my entrails.
I had, I fancy, no grudge against anybody or
anything, not even myself. I did not find that
6
ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
any of this was my own fault or anyone else’s. I
blamed neither God nor my fellow-men.
I only wondered what I would do with my last
half-crown. Anyone who has been acutely hungry
knows how odd a state of fantasy that condition
provides. I was not quite sane, nor did I see the
rest of the world quite sanely, as I stood at that
particular moment, staring at the scaffolding that,
guarding the fine new Tube-To-Be, pierced up¬
wards into the London pea-soup sky and the
shadowy casual flakes of falling snow.
I was a little cracked, to be honest. I had had
nothing to eat since yesterday midday. I had
left my lodging very early that morning, without
waiting for my breakfast, and that because I knew
that I should be unable to pay Mrs. Greene for it.
On the preceding evening I had settled my weekly
bill, smiled into Mrs. Greene’s kindly, bulging
countenance (she had a face just like a large bath-
bun), and then, in the sinister silence of my room,
examining my resources, found that I had exactly
half a crown.
I had been, I must tell you, for the last month,
searching every nook and cranny of London for a
job. I am aware that it is a commonplace of com¬
fortable and easily circumstanced people to say
that any man who really wants a job can find one.
I assure them that this is not so. It was not so
nearly five years ago, and still less is it so to-day.
I had submitted during that month to every sort of
indignity. I had approached (hating myself and
them) certain old friends, and I do not know which
was the more horrible, their consciousness of their
CHAP* I
THE BARBER
unhappy discomfort at being asked or my con¬
sciousness of their consciousness.
I was determined that I would neither borrow
nor receive the gift of money without some sort of
work offered in return. But the trouble was that
nobody wanted my work—I was ready to do any¬
thing, yes, anything at all, clean the steps, clean
the floors, black the shoes, but there was already
a multitude of eager persons performing these
offices. I was not alone in asking the question at
this time—How was it that a war which slaughtered
millions of human beings left the world a great
deal fuller than it had found it?
What I was not in the least prepared for was
the vile and greasy, patronising, indifferent com¬
placency of Mr. Bilgewater, the founder-and-
head of the great Bilgewater Stores in Mannequin
Street. He had announced that he was anxious
to assist officers who were out of a job, and I
secured an interview with him. I can see him
still, sitting, a bloated, grey-haired, swollen-with-
self-satisfaction spider, inside his fine money¬
coining web, looking across his shiny desk at me
and asking me how a man of my age dared to come
and waste his precious time by expecting a job
from him. I gently hinted ... but I won’t go
on. Even after this passage of time my hand
trembles when I think of him. I can only hope
that one day Saint Peter, who must be on the
whole a just soul and quite free of snobbery, gives
him, before he admits him through the Golden
Gates, a piece of his mind.
This little incident cured me of supplicating.
8 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
I swore that I would beg no more. Suicide,
robbery or murder—they seemed to my starving
belly and hot, fiery head, that was bursting with
fantastic visions, no impossible alternatives. I
had been walking about all day, and yet I was not
weary. I was sustained by a sort of glow, a fire
fanned and decorated by hunger, a sense of in¬
justice, a sort of exultation, because now, at this
desperate moment, I really felt myself to be
touching the very heart of life,—and a lot of
indignant self-pride.
I had no possessions in the world save some
clothes in a drawer at Mrs. Greene’s, the gar¬
ments I was wearing, and Lockhart’s edition of
Motteux’s Don Quixote\ four volumes of which
were at Mrs. Greene’s and one, the first, in my
hand. That book I possessed owing to an act
of mad extravagance four days earlier. I had
seen the volumes in a second-hand bookshop,
moderately priced, and had incontinently gone
in and purchased them, thereby ridding myself
of twenty-one shillings out of twenty-five, the
most unreasonable act possibly of all my life.
It was no excuse that Don Quixote was my
favourite book in the world and Lockhart s my
favourite edition. It was a piece of fantastic
extravagance, and how could I tell at the time
that it was to play so important a part in the
wildest sequence of events so shortly afterwards.
In any case I was holding this, the first volume
of the five, in my hand as I stood there staring
at the scaffolding, and I remember quite clearly
putting the volume, with its handsome old rose-
CHAP. I
THE BARBER
9
red cover and crimson leather label, under my
overcoat that it might not have damage from the
falling snow.
For the rest my clothes were decent; and as I
was myself broadly made, ruddy in colour, short
and sturdy of build, none of the many who jostled
by and around me had, I am sure, the slightest
notion of the especial straits that I was in.
The point that I was at this moment debating
was the destination of my final half-crown.
When you have only one half-crown left in the
world it is astonishing the number of things you
can do with it, but on this particular occasion it
was quite definitely a choice between two—should
it be spent on a meal or a hair-cut? For nearly
a month I had not had my hair cut, and this, I
imagine, from some sense of its extravagance. It
would, in fact, have been cheap at almost any price,
for if there is a thing in this world that makes
me feel myself a dirty degenerate swine, it is the
creeping of long hair about my neck.
The great question was—would half a crown
do it, for a shampoo must be included? Was a
shampoo enough? You may say that such a
hesitation between a meal and a hair-cut was, for
a starving man, an impossibility. I can only tell
you that I did so hesitate, and that this same
hesitation altered not my own life only, but the
lives of many others.
I considered the meal. Could I have enough
for half a crown? Or would I not, once I had
started, be driven by my appetite into a whale of
a meal, and then be arrested for non-payment?
IO ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS book:
On the other hand, would not the cool and
cleanliness about my neck, the freshness of the
shampoo . . . ? My whole body trembled as
I felt the firm hands of the barber pressing into
my scalp, the soft foamy luxury of the soap, the
touch of the cold water after the hot. . . . Two
rival sensuousnesses—my last perhaps. Or my
first—which way was I to go?
I have said that hunger had made me a little
fantastic. It was not the real world that I saw
when I looked up and around me. Or was it?
Who knows?
I looked up and across the Circus, and the
first things that I saw were the green and red
lights dancing on walls of the buildings opposite
me. These stars of green and red flashed and
twinkled, vanished, returned, flashed and twinkled
again. There was still in the air a dim grey
shadow of departing day, so that these recurrent
stars had a particular unreality about them that
gave them, in a queer way, an especial urgency
for myself. They seemed to be inviting me to
something. _ , . , c ,
High on the wall on the farther side of the
Avenue was a goblet of gold that rose slowly, tilted
itself awkwardly, and then ejected some liquid
with an air of quite ridiculous self-satisfaction.
The reflection of its gold and crimson shone
dully in the dead windows behind me—the re¬
flection was sulky and vengeful, as though the
windows were angry and sullen at the use to
which they were being put. Not only did these
lights seem to have some especial personal mean-
CHAP. I
THE BARBER
11
ing for me, but also for the people who were pass¬
ing on every side of me. The Circus was only
moderately crowded, but I noticed that everyone
was clinging to the pavement as though a step
forward meant ruin.
In my own excited state this did not seem at
all unnatural. Because the day had not quite
departed the centre of the Circus was sinking into
a dusk that resembled to my heated gaze the grey
waters of a pool, and I had the fancy that the
omnibuses charging up the hill from the Mall,
circling round from Piccadilly, were uncouth and
barbarous monsters plunging to the pool for a
savage drink.
‘ Well for us all,’ something said, * that we
clingy to this pavement. There’s danger at every
So the monsters panted to the pool and, under
the twinkling and derisive lights that flashed so
meaninglessly now against empty space as the
evening darkened, drank their fill.
Then, looking about me, I noticed people. I
noticed first the fat, shapeless beggar of the
especially blind eyes who, with his shiny tin cup
and the boardacross his chest, had just this moment
arrived and stationed himself quite close to me
against thewall. He,too, seemed to have a peculiar
meaning for me. (What an empty stomach can
enoughf) Ur lmagination if y ou onl y g ive ' lt rope
I had seen him arrive, led by a little, shabby
woman in a black hat and with black cotton gloves
n her hands. The moment she had stationed him
12 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
against the wall she gave his board a twitch and
without a word left him, shuffling off into the
crowd. There he stood, gazing with piercing
blind intentness at the twinkling stars of red and
green.
A thin clergyman, with an eager counten¬
ance, hesitated beside me, looked as though he
would speak, and moved away. Two women,^ very
gay and hustling, ranged at my side. ‘ Well,’ said
one over my head to the other, ‘ cheerio.’
‘ Cheerio,’ said the other. The first one waited
a moment, then said again:
‘ Cheerio, dear.’
‘ Cheerio,’ said the other. The first one van¬
ished, the second one looked right through me as
though I were not there. I felt suddenly dead,
dead and buried. No, I was not dead. I was
conscious of my beastly hair, hot and uncomfort¬
able against my neck.
4 It shall be a hair-cut,’ I decided. Then my
belly called out ‘ Steak and Kidney.’ The golden
bottle cocked itself up against the dark, scorned
me, and ejected its liquid. Something inside me
said: ‘ See what the book says! ’ So I took
Quixote out from under my coat and opened it.
I read:
4 The knight was yet asleep , when the curate came
attended by the barber , and desired his niece to let
him have the key of the room where^ her uncle kept his
books , the author of his woes. ...
The Barber! There was an omen for you.
The fates had decided. I moved forward to my
destiny.
CHAP. I
THE BARBER
13
These details must seem to you of excessive
unimportance, and I can well understand your dis¬
belief in my memory of them, but it is precisely
these things that one does remember for ever and
ever amen, even to the rather worn semi-shiny
buttons on the eager clergyman’s coat.
After a moment’s hesitation I pushed forward
across the waters of the Circus, escaped narrowly
two charging monsters that seemed to snort fire
and smoke at me as they passed, and arrived on
dry land on the spot where Eros once was. Here I
drew breath. My legs were trembling under me.
I felt faint with a gripping pain like a harsh-taloned
hand laid at my entrails. Once more (and, as it
happened, for the last time) I hesitated. Did I
yield to the temptation of the hair-cut I must,
afterwards, either finish things once and for all or
commit crime for a meal. I faced, I think, in
that bitter instant the ultimate degradation. I
was ready to do anything for a meal, sell my soul,
my body (one often enough involving the other)
to anybody for anything. A moral world? It
a ceased to exist for me, and in its room there
was this strangely beautiful evil place, shot with
coloured lights that broke and flashed and
trembJed across the sky above my head, while at
my reet there were these strange sluggish waters,
ridescent, cleft by monsters, bordered by walls of
mv *F ey ?. tone * Gut them there stepped to
l y Sld f. a f llm > horrible creature in a shining top-
buuon-lmle ° VerC ° at> with a white cameI ha in its
‘ Go °d evening,’ it said.
14
ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
4 Good evening,’ I replied.
4 There’s more snow coming,’ it continued.
4 Probably,’ I answered.
4 Going my way? ’ it asked. I nearly answered
that I was if it would provide me with a meal. Its
face was very white under its shiny hat. It had
long hands in white gloves. I hesitated and was
saved, for, looking up, I saw the golden goblet
raise itself and illuminate with its light the neigh¬
bouring windows. On these were inscribed in
big black letters, 4 Gentlemen’s and Ladies’ Hair¬
dressers—Manicure—Massage.’
4 Coming my way? ’ it said again. It had dead
eyes and wide, hungry nostrils to its nose.
4 I think not,’ I answered, and pushed out into
the stream again.
And even now the guiding finger had not
finished with me. I had landed, panting a little, as
though I had run a long way, at the corner of
Shaftesbury Avenue. There was now but a short
step across to the other side of the street. Facing
me was the corner of the Trafalgar Theatre, and
above it on the second floor the high windows of
the big hairdresser’s establishment. I was about
to take that step when someone jogged my elbow.
I heard a thick, rather drunken voice say : 4 A
fat lot of use God would be in this place,’ and,
turning, saw above me, swinging over the heads
of the crowd, a long pole, and on the end of it a
placard with the words: 4 Thou God seest Me.’
This pole was carried by an old gaunt man with
a long, straggling grey beard and a shabby coat
that fell to his heels. He was shuffling along
CHAP. I
THE BARBER
l 5
bearing his banner on high, and as he jostled me
I noticed that he was feeling with his spare hand
in his pocket for food.
There were some crumbs on his beard. So
above the crowd the message floated. Very few
gazed up to it, but it passed on serenely, confi¬
dently secure in its terrible truth. Its effect upon
me was that, looking up to it, I saw above my
head and over the sweet-shop behind me a small
window with ‘ Hairdresser—Shaving—Massage ’
upon it. The window was surrounded with fan¬
tasy. Not far away from it were three timepieces
which, with bland, naked faces, warned the crowd
beneath them of its swift passage towards re¬
morseless eternity, and all around the timepieces
and the barber’s window were the dancing stars
of red and green that I had seen from the farther
bank of the pool.
Why should I cross the road when there was a
barber’s shop here at my elbow? Moreover, there
was something in the window of the sweet-shop
that tore at my guts with a frightful agony.
It was not sugar that my hunger really needed,
u * nevertheless the sight of those piled-up heaps,
the marzipan, the crystallised fruit, the huge cake
with a pagoda in pink and red icing, the chocolates,
the slabs of cocoanut-cream. . . . One clutch of the
hand, one sweep of the arm, down those heaps
would come, I would tear the pagoda. ... I had
sense enough left me to pass swiftly by the shop
and climb the few dark, twisting stairs to the
glass door with * W. Jacoby, Hairdresser ' in¬
scribed upon it. A little more temptation, a very
16 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
little more. ... I pushed that door back as
though I were fleeing from the devil.
So dark and grubby a little room was it that,
after a glance at it, I almost retired. After all, if
this hair-cut were to be the last grand and inde¬
pendent action of my life I might as well have a
good one. But the sense that if I passed that
sweet-shop again I might yield, at this second
time, to my craving temptations held me. No, I
dared not risk it. So I walked forward.
It was a bizarre enough room. The blinds were
not down, and I was still pursued by the golden
goblet, which was now, from the opposite side of
the street, almost on a level with me, and as the
flash of its shining liquid came and went the lights
struck the room where I was, vanished, and struck
again as though they were fingers of some illumi¬
nated hand hunting on this dusty floor for some
treasure. For dusty it was. I have seldom seen
a more neglected place, and the scrubby little
barber was as neglected as his den. There were
three basins with their mirrors stuck against the
wall. On the other side of the room were some
chairs, and here two men were waiting.
The barber himself was misshapen, his dusty
head sunk between his shoulders, and on his
countenance as surly an expression as I had ever
seen on any human face. He had a large walrus
moustache, and the ends of this he was frequently
snapping at. _ • a t
He said nothing to me when 1 came in, ana I
sat down on one of two empty chairs.
I was now quite light-headed with hunger,
CHAP. I
THE BARBER
17
weariness and a sense of rebellion against all
human things. What had I ever done that I
should have been brought to this pass? I was no
worse than my fellows, better indeed than a great
many of them. I turned round on the little,
amiable, apple-faced man who was sitting next to
me and chuckling over the innocuous pages of
Punch. For two pence I could have caught him
by the neck and swung him to and fro, demanding
of him why he and his fellows had treated me so
unjustly.
But he took my gaze for amiability.
That’s a good one,’ he said, grinning and hand¬
ing me the Punch. It was at this point, I think,
that my past began to mingle inextricably with my
present as though, if you like, my past knew
that in another quarter of an hour it was going to
concern me very actively and that it might as well
prepare me for that. Never mind the scenes that
I saw-—-a door half opened; a mirror framing a
ace of rage and vengeance; a mean, spindle-
shanked little man stealing down a garden path;
eyes, the most beautiful in the world to me, telling
me of a trust and affection for which I had never
oared to hope . . . sad, wasted, ironical pictures,
crowding into the room on the recurring, reflected
impulses of that golden flashing light.
I he door opened and a sailor came in. He
was a big, red-faced fellow in sailor’s kit, a some-
what rare sight in the West End, and he carried a
ailor s bundle. It was at once evident that he
was pleasantly drunk. He rolled a little in his
walk and greeted us all with the most cheerful of
c
1 8 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
smiles. He lumbered to the chair next to mine
and sat down heavily upon it.
The barber glanced at him with exceeding
disfavour. He looked about him with beaming
interest, whistled loudly, snapped his fingers,
smacked his bulging thighs.
At last, looking at the three of us who were
waiting, he said huskily:
‘ Wonder if you gents would mind. I know
you’re first . . . don’t want to presume, but it’s
only a shave I want and I’m going to Newcastle.
First time ’ome for three years; ’aven’t seen the
kids for three years, gentlemen, and if I miss the
6.30 . . . ’E can give me a quick shave and if ’e
don’t I’ll wring ’is bleeding neck.’
The barber turned and gave him a look of
saturnine murder but said no word. We all at
once meekly agreed that the sailor should have the
next turn. This elated him greatly. He walked
about the room whistling and lumbering from
article to article, examining everything — the
almanac, with a pink-cheeked girl holding a
bunch of roses, the advertisements of hair-restorer
and shaving-soap. He stopped before the pink¬
cheeked girl and said, lurching:
‘ She’s my fancy! *
The young man upon whom the barber had
been operating, his job concluded, rose and went
for his hat and coat. The sailor immediately
plopped into his place and stared very gravely
into the mirror, feeling his cheek for pimples
Then suddenly remembering, rose heavily, crossed
the floor, and with the greatest care and reverence
CHAP. I
THE BARBER
19
placed his bundle on the chair where he had been
waiting, then returned to the seat of ceremony.
The barber approached him with looks of surly
disgust. I thought he would refuse to shave him,
but he said nothing, only stropped his razor
furiously. Then he lathered half the sailor’s face,
paused, and, shaving-brush in one hand, with the
other took the sailor’s bundle from the chair and
dropped it on the floor. The sailor said nothing
to this, but, when his face was completely lathered,
gave the barber a wave of the hand as though to
say ‘J ust wait a moment,’ got up, crossed the floor
and lifted his bundle on to the seat again. No one
uttered a word, but we three spectators sat in our
seats watching this drama with absorbed atten¬
tion.
The barber shaved with great care half the
sailor’s face, then gently moved back and placed
the bundle on the floor, the sailor watching his
action with grave intensity in the mirror. When
the razor had passed once completely over his
countenance he again motioned politely to the
barber with his hand, rose and replaced his bundle
on the chair. The barber lathered his face again,
then once more crossed to the bundle, but on this
occasion threw it violently on to the floor. Still
no word was spoken. Yet again the sailor re¬
placed it. Yet again the barber threw it down.
The air was now breathless with suspense.
Ihe sailor rose, seeming now to be twice his
former bulk.
‘ ’Ow much? * he asked gravely, feeling in his
deep, wide pocket.
20 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
‘ Three pence,’ said the barber. The sailor,
after some fumbling, found his pennies and de¬
livered them, then with a husky ‘ Take that for
your bloody cheek,’ drove his fist full into the
barber’s face. The barber crumpled and fell.
Instantly there was pandemonium. The little
apple-faced man who had been reading his Punch
so amiably was changed into a demon of fury and
rage. He flung himself on to the sailor. The
other observer, a long, thin fellow, rushed shout¬
ing to the door. The barber, surprisingly alive,
raised himself on to his knees and bit the sailor’s
thigh. The sailor himself rolled about, shouting
and waving his arms; chairs tumbled over, bottles
fell with a crash, two men came in and joined the
fray.
The door was open; my eyes were upon it.
Someone peered in, looked about him, and
cautiously stepped into the room.
One glance was enough for me. My heart
thundered in my ears, the room swam before me.
The sight of that mean-faced, spindle-shanked,
narrow-eyed little man was the ghost of all my
past, the link with everything that should have
been my future, the link that, for more than
fourteen years, I had been seeking.
Mr. Leroy Pattison Pengelly.
CHAPTER II
SPINDLE-SHANKS IN A DARK. GARDEN
It will be remembered that when Sancho Panza
told his master the story of the beautiful shep¬
herdess, Toralva, Don Quixote could not count
the number of goats carried by the fisherman
across the stream in his boat.
Quoth Sancho: * How many goats are got over
already ? *
‘ Nay, how the devil can 1 tell? ' replied Don
Quixote.
There it is! quoth Sancho, ‘ did not I hid you
keep count? On my word , the tale is at an end, and
now^you may go whistle ]or the rest?
. Ridiculous,' cried Don Quixote. ‘ Pray thee,
ts there no going on with the story unless 1 know
exactly how many goats are wafted over? '
‘ No, marry is there not,' quoth Sancho, 1 for as
soon as you answered that you could not tell, the rest
oj the story quite and clean slipped out of my head;
and in troth it is a thousand pities, for it was a
special one?
\ So then? cried Don Quixote, ‘ the story's ended?'
Ay, marry is it? quoth Sancho. * It is no more
to be fetched to life than my dead mother?
21
22 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK X
The time has come for me too, before my
story can move a step forward, to number my
goats. The trouble is not so much in my num¬
bering them, as in selecting the best ones for
my purpose. There are so many and they all
seem to be conveyed over in the fisherman’s boat
together.
The period that I must recover is a short one
—onlysix weeks—and the place is definite enough.
I will call it Howlett Hall—a name sufficiently
near to the reality—and closing my eyes can see
again those dark, squat buildings, the beautiful
Park running to the sea’s very edge, the Devon
sea with the red cliffs, the mild lisp of the
waves on the shingle in that summer weather, the
cooing of the doves in the trees that were
scattered on the edge of the shaven lawn, old red-
faced Harry Carden calling to his dogs, all the
easy, lazy social life of that wealthy care-free
world before the war.
And into that easy, normal world stepped, one
summer afternoon, the three figures of my drama.
Looking back, it seems queer enough, although
at the time it was nothing, that these three should
have all come into my life on the same day,
almost at the same moment—John Osmund,
Leroy Pengelly—and Helen Cameron. ...
Pengelly was the first. I was Harry Carden’s
land agent, and we were, had been for several
years, the greatest friends. Had he lived it would
have been another story for me. Of course he
was years older than I; our relationship was almost
that of father and son—dear Harry with his oaths
CHAP. II
SPINDLE-SHANKS
2 3
and tempers and stubbornness and charity and
secret shy kindnesses and love of women, dogs
and every earthly kind of sport!
Simple! It seems impossible that there should
be anyone alive in this complicated world of
to-day so guileless.
Well, at about three o’clock of that hot, shim¬
mering afternoon we walked down to the beach to
see about some nets that Carden had ordered from
a fisherman, saw two nets, watched for a little the
sea swell lazily in over the hot dry pebbles, break¬
ing, like the outstretching paw of a sleepy cat,
across the rising ridge; then turned back through
the little village. 6
. Outside the one and only pub there was stand¬
ing a man. I noticed him because I knew every
soul in the village, and this was a new face to me.
When we had struck up through the Park gates
Harry said:
‘So Pengelly’s back again.’ He said it, I
remember in a tone that roused my interest, for
he disliked so few of his fellow-beings that the
grating displeasure in his voice was sufficiently
remarkable. I asked who Pengelly might be.
p° W ™ re . 1 Perceive the danger of melodrama,
pengelly is, I suppose, the villain of this piece if
any villain there be, although it is possibly one of
neither villain nor hero. I should like to be fair
to rengelly, especially in consideration of later
clnnor ^ ho J ever fair one ma 7 try to be, one
esca P e hls nastiness. It exuded from him
Iways and everywhere. Harry was the most
BOOK I
24 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
generous-minded of men, but at once when he
spoke of Pengelly, a sort of disgusting atmo¬
sphere crept about us, the air seemed to darken, the
warmth of the sun to grow less kindly.
There are one or two people in the world who
darken the air, not so much by anything they do
as by what simply, of themselves, and possibly
quite without their own fault, they are. Not that
Pengelly stopped at mere existence; he was quite
an active personality until—but what happened to
him comes later.
Carden did not say much about Pengelly just
then—only that he was the nastiest, meanest, most
abject little scoundrel born of woman; that he
had come to the village some five years ago,
agent, he declared, for some kind of photographic
firm; that he had a wife whom he bullied; that he
was never seen by anyone to do any work but
simply slouched around the place: many things
were suspected of him, very little proved. Then
a girl in the village had a baby of which he was
supposed to be the father, his wife died suddenly,
and he vanished—to the great relief of everyone.
And yet the unexpected thing was, Carden added,
that he had a kind of fascination for some people.
Even Carden himself had felt it. He was very
glib in his talk, had plenty of stories to tell, had
travelled, apparently, and his conceit and self-
confidence were boundless.
‘ I hope he’s not come back to stay,’ said
Carden, and a kind of depression fell between us.
I am even fanciful enough to imagine that life
was never quite the same careless, happy thing
CHAP. II
SPINDLE-SHANKS
*5
for either of us after the moment when we saw
Pengelly leaning his scarecrow of a body up
against the wall of the ‘ Farmer’s Boy,’ his hands
in his pockets and his bony, ugly head thrust
forward in that snake-like, piercing way that was
so characteristic of him.
That was to be, however, an eventful after¬
noon for me, and the second new encounter that
it brought me quickly knocked the first out of
my head.
When we reached the house and stretched our¬
selves out in chairs on the lawn with a good cool
drink at our elbow, Harry told me that people
were coming to tea. Borlass and his stout lady
and imbecile daughter for three—and two others.
John Osmund,’ said Harry, ‘ and the lady
who is to marry him.’
‘And who may John Osmund be? ’ I asked him.
V a ™ en „ me - John Osmund was a re¬
markable fellow. One of those men who could
do anything if he liked. But he didn’t like. And
yet you couldn’t call him a slacker. He was
always doing something and doing it well, but
odd, unnecessary jobs, jobs that no one
else thought of doing.
Where dui he come from? Nobody knew.
£m*l Said A h u at he belon S ed to some Glebeshire
E^rln^- 0h -i yeS, L hc J WaS a S entIeman *11 right.
Lx raord |nar, iy handsome fellow and a giant.
firml! bC 1 1X f °?\ S1X at least and carried himself
all his a ^ hougb be bad been commanding people
Funny-tempered chap, though
u never
26 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
knew what was likely to upset him—went off the
rocker at the slightest thing, and when he did lose
his temper it was something to see. For the rest
he was as sweet as a nut and his laugh was worth
going a mile to hear. But he had odd bees in his
bonnet. Couldn’t bear this democratic twaddle
and yet was always palling up with fellows out of
his own class, not just talking to them, but made
real friends of them and didn’t mind who saw him
with them. It was crowds that he said he hated
and the way that everyone cheapened everything.
He called it a halj-bakcd age, and hated it for
being that, said he would like to drop bombs on
half humanity and leave room for the rest to grow
properly. And yet he was the kindest-hearted of
men, no crank, you understand, only talked of
these things when he was roused.
I asked some more questions and discovered
that he had been staying for a long time at the
4 Trout Inn ’ at Amberthwaite, a village some five
miles in the Exmouth direction. He kept a horse
and looked mighty fine riding it.
And the lady? Helen Cameron? She used to
come down here often with the Fosters when
they rented Onsett. She was an Edinburgh girl.
I must have seen her. Three years ago she was
down here, but was only a bit over sixteen, had
her hair down. She was nearly twenty now. An
orphan, very independent, a delightful girl and
fascinated by Osmund.
She had arrived on her own about a month ago,
met Osmund and become at once engaged to him.
The odd thing, Carden said, was that he didn t
CHAP. II
SPINDLE-SHANKS
27
think that she was really in love with him. There
was no doubt of Osmund’s feeling for her; he was
simply mad about her, but his wi 1 seemed to have
overpowered hers, which was saying something,
because she was one of the strongest-willed and
most independent women in the world. But they
were a striking pair, both so good-looking, so un¬
like other people, so individual and alone. I’d be
interested in both of them when I saw them. I
felt that I would.
I had no questions to ask about Sir Nevil
Borlass and his wife. I knew him well enough—
commonplace, greedy, self-satisfied, vulgar. He
had inherited a fortune from his father and owned
a huge place, Pecking, some ten miles distant
from Howlett. He wasn’t a bad fellow, I suppose,
but^arrogant, greedy and stupid.
As a matter of fact,’ said Carden, ‘ I’m sorry
I ve asked them at the same time as Osmund.
Osmund hates them both like poison and he’s no
swell at hiding his feelings. You may have the
luck to see him in one of his tempers. It’s worth
seeing.’
I did, as it happened, have that luck, and I’m
never likely to forget it.
Osmund and his lady walked over from
Amberthwaite.
When I saw them standing together on the sun-
renched lawn it was all I could do to restrain an
exclamation. There are some people in the world
a few—like that, made, it seems, of different clay
irom the rest of us.
Osmund would have excited attention any-
28 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK X
where. His height did not seem excessive be¬
cause he carried himself so magnificently. When
I knew him better it was always a trick he had of
throwing his head back, a gesture of freedom, of
strength, of independence, quite impossible to give
any real sense of, that seemed especially his. He
was dark and with just that amount of foreign¬
ness in his colour that our Celts often have. You
would have known him for an Englishman any¬
where, though. His smile was delightful, boyish
and discerning. His anger—well, I shall have an
opportunity of describing that in a moment.
And Helen? If this story has neither hero nor
villain, at least it has a heroine. How shall I
describe her as she was on that first day? I can
remember very little of that first impression. She
was slim, tall, dark-haired like Osmund, and I
fancy that on that first afternoon I thought her
sullen, conceited, fond of her own opinion, a little
arrogant.
To tell the truth, I was, I think, on that day so
deeply struck by Osmund that I paid little atten¬
tion to Helen. She certainly paid none at all to
me. She had, as I was to learn afterwards, other
things just then to think about.
We all sat down together and were very happy.
How charming Osmund could be when he liked!
He was the most perfectly natural being I have
ever known. When he was at his ease and trusted
his company he was like a cheery, happy-go-lucky
boy who hadn’t a bother in the world.
At any rate that was what he was on this first
meeting—before all his trouble came.
CHAP. II
SPINDLE-SHANKS
--- 29
I don’t think that any of us heard Fate mutter
in our ears as the Borlass family appeared on the
horizon, ‘ Here’s the end of your happiness.*
No, we didn’t hear, but if we had we should have
heard the truth.
A more commonplace trio you couldn’t have
found in all England; Borlass with his thick neck
and swelling stomach, and stout calves ridiculous in
their rough pinky-brown stockings; Lady Borlass,
a stout little woman who walked like a chicken
looking for seed. She was always overdressed
and, for so small a woman, wore an astonishing
amount of jewels. She was famous for her jewels.
Her daughter was a large lumpy girl with spec¬
tacles and a deep bass voice. She laughed like a
man too, and seemed to take the deepest interest
m everything that you said. Only her eyes
etrayed her, for they stared through their glasses
with a blank vacancy which showed that she never
listened to a word that anyone uttered. It was
er obsession (and also the obsession of her
parents) that every male and every mother of every
male pursued her for her money.
As a matter of fact, it’s my opinion that no one
pursued her at all and that she was cross and
lonely, poor thing.
. * n an y case , here they were, Lady Borlass pick¬
ing her way between her two large compan ions, who
arched one on either side of her as though they
« Protecting her from rape and battery. She
a * n her hand a lorgnette, and every once and
gain she would stop for a moment and examine
e ground exactly like a hen looking for seed.
30
ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
I have taken some while in describing this
family because of its importance in what happened
afterwards. The important event on this particu¬
lar afternoon will take no time at all to describe.
I remember, as though it were yesterday, the
immediate change in Osmund as the Borlasses
appeared.
To say that it was childish inadequately de¬
scribes it. His face that had a second before been
open, jolly and most handsomely engaging was
suddenly rebellious, ill-tempered and petulant.
We all know people who are simply unable to
behave decently in company that is uncongenial
to them, and, however charming they may be,
we do on the whole avoid them because of
the awkward situations that crop up in their
society—so it was now with Osmund. Harry,
Helen Cameron and myself were at once un¬
comfortable. It was as though we had taken out
into grown-up company a child who might at any
moment behave indecently. Only the Borlasses
noticed nothing. They patronised us all, ate their
cucumber sandwiches with complete satisfaction,
behaved as though they had bought all the world
for a song.
The crash came, as unexpectedly for them as
though a naked Pan had broken suddenly through
the thicket; The affair had upon Lady Borlass
just that effect. She had been speaking of her
maid-servants; she had a high-pitched immensely
superior voice, cold like a lump of ice falling into a
drink, cultivated, I’ve no doubt, in the early days
when her own family was not quite so county as
I
CHAP. II
SPINDLE-SHANKS
it might have been. She talked of her servants as
though they were a party of savages that had been
brought over to England for her from Central
Africa. ‘After all,’she said, ‘one expects stupidity,
but such idiocy . . .*
Osmund jumped to his feet. The whole of
his six foot six hung over us.
. * Idiocy! Idiocy!’ he cried. ‘If that isn’t
just characteristic of all of you 1 Because you’ve
got money to spend you think that you’re better
than the men and women worth a thousand of you.
I bet you’re as useless a woman as exists. You
and your husband just cumber the ground, and it
would be better for everyone if you were under
it. I haven’t been here for months without know¬
ing something about you—with your conceit and
laziness and ignorance. ... Oh, damn ! I beg
your pardon Carden. I’ve behaved like a swine,
oon-y. j \\ ^ e going. . .
It was that or something like that. I only
know that after all these years ■ the anger and
have for CC „ la u k °l contro1 of that outbreak
cr^t H me T n the effect as ‘hough the sky had
crashed toourTetf * b0lt ’ “ d thunde ™>
nywa y>, Osmund went —there and then
acrosT^r, W ° rd t0 a ^ ofus > «rode furiously
Sess to and 7*1 g0ne ' The tea-party,
needless to say, was ended. I can see yet the look
as though a ^ 111 ^ 186 "t ‘ h< l BorlaSS countenances,
wiped all , damp n |g had be en pressed there and
said no?” w o e rd m0dcllmg aWa >'- Cameron
«
32
ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
Next day I met Osmund by the seashore.
Shamefaced he confessed his sins. He had be¬
haved, he supposed, like a perfect cad? I said
that he had. Was Carden furious? Yes, Car¬
den was furious. He’d better go up, he supposed,
and take his licking. He liked Carden. He’d
take any beating he wanted to give him. I
suggested that he should write a note of apology
to Lady Borlass. But that he wouldn’t hear of.
He had, he considered, committed no crime at all
so far as the Borlasses were concerned. He’d
been wanting to say something to them ages
back; it was only saying it in Harry Carden s
garden that was wrong, under old Harry’s roof,
so to speak, and in front of myself and Miss
Cameron. , , , .. c
But there it was. He had the devil or a
temper; he had always had one and never
learnt to control it as a kid. People like the Bor¬
lasses made him feel sick. But he apologised
to me, and would perfectly understand if I never
wanted to speak to him again. .
I liked him. I couldn’t help but like him.
You’d have liked him had you known him at that
He took then a surprising fancy to myself, and
in a short while we were seeing one another very
often. Three things I noticed about him. One
was that, charming, kindly, humorous as he mostly
was, these sudden winds of passion were at any
time liable to ruffle his spirit. Secondly, that he
was a poet with a real worship of beauty in every
possible form— nature, art, music, letters, character,
CHAP. II
SPINDLE-SHANKS
33
everything and that, just now, this love of beauty
was all directed into the channel of his worship
for Helen Cameron. Thirdly, that, as Carden
said, he made the oddest intimacies with men
quite outside his own class and education.
_ Not many days passed before I met such a
inend, Charlie Buller by name. Buller was
short, sturdy, with a certain air of hostler
about him. He was a jolly little man, with
pleasant wrinkles about his eyes and an apple-
brown complexion. He had no especial purpose
in Iite that I could see except to joke about every-
hmg. . I wouldn’t have been at all surprised at
his having done time. He was as reticent about
his past as his present—altogether not at all the
sort of friend for Osmund. But then Osmund,
gentleman as he was, was most certainly adven-
iTnLf SO u °^ e kncw an ything at all about
wheth \ ? £ i en , Cameron had no idea
the Armv e h , ad f , re!a ^ 0 " s > Aether he had been in
the Army, whether he had any means.
‘ssr 1 b ' lim “■»*
wiA Helen a r WfUl thing happened. I fell in love
tW fir Cameron. How often in the years
whether 7 c M 1< ? okcd back and asked myself
at all to L d have done anything, anything
I could not r vented th i S - Now k "°w that
the le ?■’ II Was one of the strands—and not
the least important one either—in the strange
P W"* W - £ Were a11 at last to fi gore. ®
Osmund. T C a madness and worse. I was
friend for one thing; for another, I
BOOK I
34 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
didn’t want just then to fall in love with anyone;
for a third, I had no reason to think that she had
any interest in me: if she thought of me at all,
she seemed to dislike me. But it happened—as
inevitably and, it seemed, as hopelessly as all the
rest of this incredible business.
And, what is more, I knew the exact moment
when it happened.
I had walked with Osmund and Helen to the
Park gate. As we reached it the rain began.
All the trees above our heads trembled; there
were the secret urgent whispers of a coming storm.
He drew her under the cover of his waterproof,
but just before they turned down the windy road,
meeting the rain, she looked back and smiled.
I stood there looking after her, looking beyond
her into an angry tear of yellow sky that slashed
the thick grey. I knew in that moment that I
loved her. I hoped at first that it was a passing
fever, caught from the quietness and remoteness
of our life in this little place. I left next morning
for London. I returned a week later, knowing
that this was something far different from any
love-affair of my life. Yes, and by God, so it has
been!
I returned to find one or two odd things.
One was that Osmund’s friend, Charlie Buller,
had someone lodging with him, a big, flabby,
balloon-like man with a remarkably small head.
His name was Hench. He had a funny squeaky
voice like a woman’s, but he seemed not a bad
fellow from Osmund s account of him, kindly,
ready to do anything for anyone. All the same,
CHAP. II
SPINDLE-SHANKS
35
they were, both of them, strange friends for Osmund
to have. And then I discovered a queerer thing
yet. They were, both of them, Buller and Hench,
hand in glove with the horrible Pengelly. I saw
the three of them constantly together, and,
stranger yet, Osmund, it seemed, on passable
terms with Pengelly. I spoke to Carden about
this. He only shrugged his shoulders. Since
that scandalous outburst he had seen very little
of Osmund. A fellow who behaved like that to
your guests—well, it made a chap uncomfort¬
able. . . .
Then things moved quickly. Looking back
now, I feel that I was in a kind of dream during
those weeks, and not a very pleasant dream either.
Now that I had fallen in love with Helen, I per¬
ceived in her every kind of sweetness, nobility
and charm. But I had to behave decently. I
avoided her persistently. Everyone thought that
I disliked her—Carden, Osmund and Helen
herself. I think that it was this sense of my dis-
like of her that first stirred her interest in me.
And she wasn’t—although at the time I had no
idea of this—at all happy: frightened, uneasy,
desperately apprehensive. The more she knew
or Osmund the more apprehensive she became.
Even I could see, during those weeks, what
a queer fellow he was. Madness does not cover
it, neither then nor later. I shall not attempt any
analysis of him. At the moment I am concerned
only with events ; but at least from the very first
. realised that Osmund was, so to speak, ‘ out¬
size not only in physical things, but especially
BOOK I
36 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
in spiritual. He had—he must always have had—
a sort of wild impatience with life. Things that
he read in the paper—little casual wayside things
—made him mad with irritation. He wanted to
4 get at ’ people and punish or praise or comfort
or expose. He hated injustice and cruelty and
meanness with a ferocity that I’ve never seen
equalled in any other human being, but he was
himself, in that very hatred, unjust and cruel-
mean never.
He really believed, I think, that, were he given
a free, omnipotent hand, he would by wholesale
executions and wholesale rewards set all the world
right. And yet he was not conceited, did not
believe in his own powers. I think that it was
partly his sense of his owji weakness and ignorance
that exasperated him.
And beside Osmund and Helen stood Pen-
gelly. Even at that time, before anything had
happened, I realised by a kind of spiritual sniffing
of the air that Pengclly was mixed up with all of
this. I cannot possibly describe the way in which
he was for ever turning up. He wore a thin, grey
Aquascutum that flapped about his bony legs and,
cocked sideways, a bowler too large for him that
badly needed brushing. He had a thin cane, with
which he used to tap his teeth.
He had nothing to do with any of us, and yet
he was always appearing round the corner. He
would grin, touch his shabby bowler, look at us
as though he had something very important to say
and slouch away. _ , .
I remember saying to Osmund that I wondered
SPINDLE-SHANKS
CHAP. II
that Charlie Buller made a friend of him. Buller
seemed a decent little chap.
‘ Oh, it isn’t Charlie that’s Pengelly’s friend,’
said Osmund, 4 it’s Hench.’
And Hench? What was he doing here?
Like Buller and Pengelly, nothing at all apparently,
slouching about like a bladder that needed prick¬
ing, a really comic figure, with that little mild face
staring above the big wobbly body. And his
voice, whenever I heard it, made me want to
giggle like a schoolgirl.
What were they doing? We very soon knew.
The climax crashed in upon us as though a grey
muddy sky had swamped down and choked us.
I heard it from Carden.
One remembers the most ridiculous details of
sudden catastrophic scenes that, with a swing and
a push, hammer one’s life into a new direction.
bo, on that sunny morning in Carden’s library, I
was hammered.
I was, I remember, at that moment trying- to
write 1 have all my life been trying to write in
the odd moments between what is, I believe, of
vastly more importance, trying to live. Just then
1 was fancying that I could produce a pretty
combination of Nature and Fiction: you know
J i/i% the B yThou,d'tfee world"
combinat^te C^ht 2^
I am most certainly not clever eLugh t"o m a n .
1 had just written a most moving little descrip-
38 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
tion of the Otter’s life as, pursued by cruel
hunters, he was nosing for his three wives every¬
where, when Carden came in, his round childish
eyes simply popping in his face.
He gasped. He sat down, stuttered as though
he would have a fit, then told me. Last night,
half an hour after midnight, Osmund, with Buller
and Hench in attendance, was arrested in the
hall of the Borlass mansion on the charge of
attempted burglary.
4 Oh, rot! ’ I shouted, jumping up. Osmund
Burglary . . . Absurd, impossible! ’—and
so on.
But it was true, deadly true. Buller and Hench
had had masks and lanterns, all the regular para¬
phernalia.
Osmund had not uttered one word when
arrested, simply shrugged his shoulders.
In due time more of the mystery was declared.
They had been given away, the three of them.
Everything was known to the police long before
the attempt. The police, gathered in from Ex¬
mouth, were simply waiting for them.
Further than that, it appeared that their
betrayer was Pengelly. #
Charlie Buller had been, it appeared, the
originator of the plan. He had heard of Lady
Borlass’s jewels, had persuaded an old friend of his,
Hench, to come in with him, and there they were.
How Pengelly wormed himself into their con¬
fidence nobody knew. Why he played the part
he did nobody knew either.
He betrayed them from the very first.
CHAP. II
SPINDLE-SHANKS
39
But, mystery of mysteries, what had Osmund
to do in this gal ere} Osmund, the aristocrat,
to be mixed in this degraded crowd, and involved
in a burglary as common and vulgar as any in the
cheapest novelette 1
Not at his arrest, nor at his trial nor afterwards,
did he utter a single word. He went to gaol as
quietly as he went fishing.
As you may suppose, my first and my last
thought was of Helen. What she must be suffer¬
ing in her love, her pride, her affronted privacy,
her sudden loneliness! But was it not human
nature that behind this sorrow for her I should, in
spite of myself, wonder whether there was not now
a chance for me? I might have known her better.
I saw her indeed only once. On a wild stormy
afternoon I was battling my way home across the
beach and I almost ran into her. We stepped
back into some shelter of a rock.
I asked her: 4 Is there a thing I can do? *
Nothing,* she answered me.
Then, holding out her hand to me and smiling,
she said: He won’t tell me why he did it. Hedl
tell me nothing. I think it was a prank of his
at the last minute, to play a game on the Borlasses.
on t know. We shall marry as soon as he
comes out.*
Then, looking at me as I’d never seen her look
thing 6 ' ShC Said: * 1 Want y ° U t0 P romise one
t promise anything,’ I answered.
T n vr * tr 7 to see me a g ai m Forget us both.
I like life to be difficult, but I don’t want it to be
BOOK I
40 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
too difficult. If you really wish to help me, promise
me that.’ And she was gone.
She left me in a state of exaltation, defiance,
exasperation. Did she care for me after all? And
if she did, wouldn’t I fight heaven and earth to
have her? , _ ,
I argued basely with myself that Osmund was
my friend no longer, that in any case he could
now only make her miserable, that for her sake
I must prevent her from what could only be a
wretched marriage. I wrote her, again and again,
mad, passionate, pleading letters. I received no
answer. I could get no news of her. VV ith 1914
came the war and the end of every story. #
I had one more glimpse, however, of the villain
of this little piece. , . r .
In 1915 I was home on leave and, the loneliest
soul in the world, sought out the only friend I had.
I sent a wire to Carden and followed it down to
find the house shut up and Carden in France. I
wandered, on a wet, dreary evening, about the
gardens already growing wild with neglect, hating
the blind, hostile, shuttered windows and the
sough of the wind in the trees.
A stormy shivering moon broke ou from the
clouds and palely lit the lawn, that very lawn upon
which, under a blazing sun, Osmund and Helen
and I had first met. , • i
As I stood there someone stepped crunchingly
on the gravel path before the shuttered windows.
I turned, and there was Pengelly. Oh, but un¬
mistakable, his dusty bowler cocked sideways, h,s
Aquascutum flapping at his heels.
chap, ii SPINDLE-SHANKS
He stood there, staring, as though he, too, had
seen a ghost. I called his name, ‘ Pengelly, you
dirty swine! * He turned and ran, I followed, but
the moon was veiled, the rain came beating down,
hammering on the shuttered boards, there was no
other sound in the world.
He became, after that, an obsession with me.
I was always looking for him. When I saw him
I would discover where the Osmunds were and
then wring his dirty neck.
But the world is a large place. As I have
already told you I went from one miserable job
to another, always the image of Helen haunting
me, loving only her, not knowing whether she
were alive or dead—wanting her . . . wanting
And now you know why the sight of Pengelly’s
hatchet face in that barber’s shop was the most
momentous vision in the world!
CHAPTER III
OSMUND
I had no more thought for barber or barbers
shop. My final vision of the place was ot the
barber and the sailor grappling together in a
muttering, gasping embrace among the tumbled
chairs and china. I had picked up my hat and
coat and was out of the door into the passage.
There was no Pengelly. Indeed there was
nothing in the dreary little box of a passage but
a dim light and a musty smell of oranges. I hen 1
heard voices. Two people came round the corner
of the stairs, and I stood aside that they might go
by A stout woman and a little man. The stout
woman was breathing heavily and complaining
^A^they passed me I heard the little man say:
‘ But how was I to know? You always liked liver
and bacon before this. I don’t know what s come
to you with all these new fancies. ...
I waited until they had gone. Everything
was as silent as an ice-box. From ms.de the
barber’s shop there came no sound. Very
cautiously I moved up the stairs, turned the
corner, and there on the next landing, looking
4 2
OSMUND
CHAP. Ill
up the farther staircase, his head cocked as
though he were listening, stood Pengelly.
I drew back in the corner of the staircase,
restraining every breath in my body, restraining,
yet more, my eager desire to catch his dirty bony
neck between my fingers and wring it until his
eyes stared over the back of his body!
I didn’t move, and Pengelly didn’t move
either. What it was to me to see him again after
all these years! He hadn’t changed an iota!
His cheek-bones were as prominent, his nostrils
as wide and hungry, his eyes as grey and narrow,
his mouth as cruel and mean, and his whole air
as shabby and dusty as of old. He was an im¬
memorial figure, standing for spite and meanness
like a carved figure in a cathedral choir-stall.
But, as I looked at him, it was not of himself that
my heart was full, but of Osmund and Helen.
At last I should have news of them, at last know
whether they were alive, whether they were
married, yes, even though I had to push his mean
eyes into his dirty little face to discover it.
But what, after all, was he doing there? He
was engaged, it was plain, on some game of
his own, some game that was of great import¬
ance to himself. His whole body was strung
together in its absorption of eagerness and
curiosity. There was something or somebody on
the floor above that concerned him very nearly,
and I knew enough about him to be aware that it
was something that boded ill.
, A noise startled him. He turned and, look¬
ing back down the staircase, seemed to be staring
44 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
right into me. You must remember that here
there was only a half-light. A window threw
a glow upon his evil countenance, but I was my¬
self in obscurity. I looked into the white frosted
door of some offices that had upon the glass
names printed in deep black letters.
When he stared at me there was something
uncanny about our encounter. For more than
fourteen years I had again and again imagined
our reunion. With any one of them, Osmund,
Helen, Pengelly, Buller, Hench, the meeting
would have been enough to have provided a link
for me with the others, but, for some reason, it
had been Pengelly whom I had first envisaged.
How often I had planned just what I would say
and do, forcing him on to his knees wherever our
meeting might be, and then, having had my will
with him, throwing him aside like a dirty rag.
But I had never imagined it like this.
He stared at me as though he must see and
recognise me, but I realised that he was staring
beyond me, down into the dark recesses of the
staircase, listening with all his protruding ears for
a voice, a footstep, an opening door.
Suddenly he nodded his head, as though he had
come to a decision, turned and very cautiously
climbed the staircase. For a moment I hesitated.
Should I follow him or wait for his return. 1
didn’t want to climb to the next floor and then
confront him, when perhaps he had already rung
a bell and so could escape into some flat I
I waited where I was he would in all probability
return—Or would he? He might be swallowed
CHAP. Ill
OSMUND
45
up by some apartment and not emerge again that
night. The thought decided me. I mounted
the stairs after him. I went cautiously, and the
turn of the stairs was dark enough to make a slip
very easy. I remember that I clutched the
volume of Quixote to me as though it were a talis¬
man. I emerged on to the next landing, and—
there was no Pengelly! He had vanished as
though he had never been.
I was caught by a beat of bitter disappoint¬
ment. I had missed him then! I looked around
me. Above me the stairs, thinning now as they
reached the heights of the building, in front of me
the door of a flat with bell and letter-box but no
name, to my right a ledge with a small window.
I went to this last and looked out. The snow
ad ceased; roofs ran parallel with my vision,
roots and, above and beyond them, some crooked
chimneys that, in this half-light, resembled
uman beings. One chimney near to me, peering
over shelving tiles, seemed like a swollen and
°u y malevolent Pengelly. The large ears
were cocked, the face, thickened and roughened,
as corrugated and lined with sneering laughter,
u especially it wore exactly that look of evil
listening attention that Pengelly had just now
AH this was in the air, but, through a division
over Tu* S -d couId look down, as one looks
ver a hilly ridge, into the lights of the Circus.
rw ^ 1F WaS ^jckened and darkened, and so I
P ed over as it were into a river of light that
m ed and flashed and seemed sometimes to
46 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
bubble as though, at any moment, it would burst
into flame. I was not, in actual fact, so high here
above the ground, but I seemed to be high, in a
thick grey world with the light flowing like a lava
stream between the clefts.
Suddenly, and from the floor below, someone
switched on the light and, turning, I saw my little
rabbit-hutch of a passage all ablaze. If Pengelly
came down now or emerged from that door,
nothing could prevent our meeting.
Someone was coming up from the floor below.
I waited. A head appeared, then a body. It
seemed to me not to be odd at all that in another
moment I was face to face with Charlie Buller. I
had always told myself that if I ever were lucky
enough to encounter one of them he would carry
the others with him. I don’t know why I had
been sure of this. After all nothing was more
unlikely. And yet it turned out to be true in a
much wider, deeper sense than I had ever sus¬
pected. Yes, it turned out to be very true indeed!
But at the actual sight of Charlie Buller I must
confess that my heart leapt with joy, for Buller
meant Osmund and Helen more than Pengelly
did. I was sure then, with a glorious triumphant
certainty, that my contact with Helen had at last
begun again!
Nevertheless, if Charlie was no surprise to me
I was like a ghost or miracle to Charlie! He had
come up the stairs, his head down, lost in his own
thoughts (and, as I was to find out afterwards, he
had plenty to think about just then). He almost
ran straight into me. He pulled himself up and
CHAP. Ill
OSMUND
47
then stood there, staring as though, in spite of the
light, he must be deceived.
Well, Charlie, I said, smiling and holding out
my hand. At first glance he looked to me just as
he used to look—a little rounder, a little tubbier,
clothed in just the same sort of rather loud brown
tweeds that he used to wear, his round face of the
same ruddy brown colour, his eyes bordered by the
same good-humoured wrinkles. I had changed,
of course, and, I am afraid, not for the better
At first he really did not know me.
t -Djck Gunn,’ I said.
‘, M 7 Goci! ’ he answered, taking me in. He
I ,ookln g ”>e over, shook me warmly by
then L dro PP ed it as though he had
suddenly remembered something.
abrupt y ° U C ° me t0 S£e • • ' ? ’ He stopped
is h “ pi " 8 £
that /recoHec^ed^n^ he 1 , made 1 f hen the movement
narrowed as thrmn-k u * a str ?! 7> and hls e Y es
of something g 6 Were Sudden! X suspicious
Ws "voice t0 ‘To e „ t Z° U t0 °’’. he Said > als ° dipping
*~ r **xisr..!s&2'idi
48 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
‘ Look here,’ I went on, ‘ I don’t want to stop
you now if you’re busy, but I must have a talk
with you, and to-night if it’s possible.’
‘ Why, yes,’ he said. He was looking around
him, staring up the stairs and then at the flat-
door. , . .....
‘ ’Course we’ll have a talk—after all this time.
Things are pressing a bit at the moment. Where
are you staying? ’ ,, T
‘ Can’t we eat together somewhere.'' I
remember saying that with a grand confidence
although my precious half-crown was all that 1
had. You must remember, too, that all this time
I was ravenous with hunger.
* p ac t is—Afraid I’m booked. Let s know
where to ring you.’ I interrupted him. It
seemed to me possible that Pengelly might appear
at any moment.
‘ Wait a minute,’ I said, ‘ I must tell you some¬
thing. Why I’m here at all is that followed
Penlelly. I saw him downstairs, I followed him
up. I kept sight of him as far as this landing and
then I lost him. . . ,
‘ Pengelly* ’ He stiffened like a terrier sight-
ing a rat. ‘Pengelly! Already-he’s before
his time. Did he see you? he asked, coming
nearer to me and dropping h.s voice yet lower as
though we’d become two conspirators
‘ No,’ I answered. What s he doing here.
He wasn’t up to any good.’
• He never is,’ Charlie answered
I noticed then that he was very different indeed
from the man of earlier days. There was some-
CHAP. Ill
OSMUND
49
thing in the glance of his eye, in his bodily
posture, that set him apart not only from myself,
but from all the rest of humanity. In the old
days he hadn’t given a thought to anything at all
save the game or rascality of the moment: now
he was neither furtive nor secretive—those are
not the words—but suspicious of everybody and
everything, as though at any moment someone
would spring on him from a dark corner and collar
him. Then in a flash I realised. It was prison
that had made this difference, set him apart, like
some member of a monastic order, given him a
secret life that no one who had not suffered that
experience could understand.
I might not understand, but I sympathised.
He seemed to have made up his mind. ‘ Well—
so long,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘ We’ll
meet soon and have a crack.’ I saw that my news
about Pengelly had made him impatient. He
had moved instinctively towards the door of the
flat close to us. Someone was inside there to
whom he must give information. But I couldn’t
lose sight of him without a clue to the others.
Look here,’ I said. ‘ Where are we going to
meet, and when? ’ 6 6
‘What’s your telephone number?’ he
flat'dcK) ^ 1S C ^ eS ° n t ^ ie sta * rcase a °d the
I haven t got one. ... I’m passing through
« do1 }* • ? Ut , 1 COuld meet V ou an ywhere.’
to K. U *i lg r * 1 Could see how ur g en t he was
p> nd o{ . me ‘ ‘ Ring me up at the Regent
alace any time before eleven.’
E
50 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
I nodded, and then, without any warning, the
roar of an angry sea was in my ears, a long cold
serpent coiling tightly round my stomach, and
Charlie Buller turned into a scarecrow. Also
the electric light danced gaily about the floor. I
tottered. He caught me in his arms.
‘ Hullo ... what’s up? ’ With all the strength
that I had I tried to stiffen my spine, to beat down
the lights, to stifle the roar. Through it all I
could smell the rough tweed of Charlie’s clothes.
4 I can’t—no food-’ I muttered, and sank
into a black well of infinite depth.
The first sight after that I had was of a magni¬
ficent old secretaire. This thing towered above
me. Looking up I could take in all the details,
its ancient black wood, the beautiful carving of
the old brass handles, but especially the lovely
little pictures in white and red ivory with which
every one of its multitudinous little doors was
faced. These pictures danced before my eyes, but
with all the seriousness of semi-consciousness I
was gravely tracing them out—there were scenes
of hunts, men chasing the deer, of ladies in tower¬
ing head-dresses leaning over high balconies, of
armoured knights jousting in tournament, of wind¬
ing rivers and delicately shaped hills, and all toned
to a lovely old richness that harmonised perfectly
with the deep ebony of the wooden panels.
Then I looked further, half-raising myself, and
stared straight into the eyes of Osmund. .
He was standing high above me, watching me
very gravely, in^aiff'dtend a glass*-
OSMUND
CHAP. Ill
‘ Here, drink some more of this,* he said, giv¬
ing me the glass; and the sound of his voice—
deep, gentle, exceedingly harmonious—brought
back the old days, the old events, until they seemed
to be gathered crowding about me. Oh! but I
was glad to see him.
I drank the brandy. My head cleared. My
one thought then was that he shouldn’t think that
I had planned this faint as a ruse. ‘ I couldn’t
help it, I said, sitting up; 4 I didn’t mean to. I’ve
been so busy, I haven’t eaten anything. Over¬
taxed myself.’ I remember so well that ridiculous
excuse, the poor effort of the remnants of my pride.
He put his hand on my shoulder.
‘ That’s all right, Dick,’ he said. 4 We ’re very
glad to see you. There’s some food here at your
side. Have some grub before you talk.*
With that I am free to confess that I forgot
eV u yt u Hing SaVC the food * 1 can taste k still—the
cold ham, the bread and butter, cold chicken,
ruyere. . . . They say that a starving man must
eat penuriously. There wasn’t, I fear, much
caution about myself that evening. I swallowed
the food like a wolf.
All the time Osmund stood watching me, not
saymgaword. I finished: I lay back on the sofa,
my hands above my head, with a sigh of content.
full'1 1 !°°i ke f Up r f hlm > smilin g; then, at last, in
tun control of my faculties, I sat up, facing him.
Thanks, I said. ‘ Now I’ll go. You’re busy.
tumKl me - Ce y ° U kter on - IVe been wanting to
tumble against you for donkey’s years.’
Have you, Dick? ’ He stood there, still star-
;
BOOK I
52 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
ing at me in that same odd, grave, contemplative
way. 4 Well, now you’ve found me, what’s been
happening to you? ’
‘ Oh, I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘ One thing
and another. It isn’t too easy these days for a
man of my age. . . .’ But I wasn’t going to ex¬
pose my poverty. I remember feeling that I’d
rather lose sight of Osmund and Helen at once
and for ever than that they should spy out my
nakedness. I climbed to my feet. ‘ I’ll be off,’ I
said. 4 Thanks for the meal. We’ll have dinner
one night, shall we? Come and dine with me
somewhere. We’ll talk over old times.’
‘ Yes,’ he said, still staring at me. ‘ I’ve had
two years in gaol, you know. That gives a man
something to talk about. . . .’ Then, as though
he had just made up his mind to something, he put
both his hands on my shoulders and pushed me
down on to the sofa again. 4 You stay here for a
bit. I need your company.’
He gave me a cigarette and sat down on the
sofa near to me. Then we looked at one another.
He was vast as he lounged back sprawling on that
sofa, his great legs stuck forward, his head up with
that gesture that I remembered so well, his eyes
half closed, staring at me from under the lids.
His dark hair was flecked now with grey; his
eyes were as beautiful, as large and clear, as
audacious and courageous as ever they had been.
At first I thought that there was nothing very
much altered about him, save his mouth. The
change in that I noticed at once. It had been in
the old days careless, casual and friendly. Now it
CHAP. Ill
OSMUND
53
was hard and would have been relentless and
almost cruel had not the lips, even as I watched,
moved a little and their lines shifted to uncertainty
and hesitation. His eyes, too, shifted; after a short
look from me they dropped and refused to meet
mine. Where had I quite recently seen just that
same shyness? Why, of course,'Charlie Buller
. . . and with that I knew also the reason of the
similarity. He had also been making his inspec¬
tion of me.
‘ Well, Dick—so you’ve turned up again.
You’re looking pretty fit whatever you’ve been
doing. Hair a bit long, which it usedn’t to be/
Then, quite without warning, he gripped my
hand. 4 I’m damn glad to see you. I’ve missed
you a lot/
But he hadn’t. I knew at once even as he spoke
those words that he wasn’t thinking of what he
was saying, that when he had gripped my hand
he was expressing some emotion that hadn’t any¬
thing to do with myself. Even in the old days he
had had the irritating habit of allowing his mind
to run ahead of what he was actually saying. This
had grown on him apparently. But suddenly he
jumped up, walked about the room as though he
were looking for something, then went to the door,
glanced out of it, closed it very carefully, and
came back to me.
T , * L S °, r /y>’ k e ? a *^> sittin g down beside me. 4 But
-l m half-expecting someone/
Yes, I told Buller-’ I began. Then I
stopped. I wasn’t going to be the first to mention
* engelly.
BOOK I
54 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
‘ Buller went out for a minute. He’ll be back.’
Then he tried to concentrate on me. ‘ Now, Dick,’
he said. ‘Fire away. Tell me all about yourself—
all your adventures. You’re as fat as ever, you old
pig. Been doing yourself proud? Married yet? ’
No, I was not married yet, but I didn’t tell
him the reason. I began a long rigmarole, but
neither of us was attending. My nerves were
on edge. For what ? I don’t know. Looking
back, I try hard to recover every moment of that
important half-hour. For one thing, I was, I
fancy, expecting that at any moment Charlie
Buller would enter, and for another I had the
consciousness that that swine Pengelly was
skulking behind the curtains somewhere.
Of course he wasn’t. But I couldn’t rid
myself of the sense and smell of him. And all
the time Osmund’s fingers were tapping restlessly
on the arm of the sofa.
‘ And so I’ve been living in Westminster
lately,’ I added at last, lamely. ‘ Quite a decent
place. Nice woman—food not bad as those
things go-’ f
Osmund nodded his head. I know, he
said. But he’d only caught the last words. ‘ As
things go, but I tell you what, Dick, things go
damnably. Damnably, that’s the way they go.
Wait a minute. Do you hear anything? ’
He held up his hand. I must confess that
what I heard was my heart beating like a pendulum
clock. ‘What do you expect me to hear? I
asked at last.
‘ The crowd,’ he answered.
CHAP, in
OSMUND
55
4 The crowd? * I repeated feebly.
‘ Yes, the crowd,’ he answered impatiently.
With a swift movement he jumped up, went to
the window, and flung it open.
* Now listen,’ he said. There came up to us
all the murmur of the Circus. Like the sea it
was, coming in with a regular beat and rhythm,
‘ Tip-Top, Tip-Top, Tip-Top,’ and this was
broken into by the cry of a motor horn, the distant
shout of the calling of the evening papers, the
muffled ringing of a church bell—and I seemed
to hear also a plaintive undertone as though some
giant were whimpering.
He banged the window down again. He
came back to me and stood in front of me.
‘ There you are,’ he cried. ‘ You can’t hear
it with the windows shut, but I can—night and
day. It never stops.’
. ‘ What do you live here for,’ I asked him, 4 if
it bothers you so? There are plenty of quiet
streets.’ n
That wouldn’t make any difference,’ he
answered. 4 They’d be there just the same. It’s
the thought of them, all alike, all thinking the
same things, all doing the same things, all dirty,
lseased, making love, eating, drinking, sleeping
He broke off. 4 Don’t think I’ve gone
crazy, I haven t♦ But that time in prison gave
me a turn about crowds. I always had it in a way.
mce I was a kid I’ve always wondered that people
weren t better-looking, didn’t care for themselves
J ej ;> and wh y the y didn’t get rid of the
unfit and all the rotters—just shove them into a
BOOK I
56 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
lethal chamber. ... I’m a rotter myself, of
course. Deserve extinction as much as anybody.
But I’m quite ready to be put away if someone
decided. . . He broke off, and smiled in just
his old charming way. ‘ Aren’t I an ass, Dick?
But I always was, and gaol didn’t improve me. I
wonder you come near me.’
4 No,’ I answered him; 4 but what I can’t
understand is why, if you feel like that, you’ve
pitched on this place for a flat, in the very middle
of all the racket/
4 Ah, you see,’ he answered, nodding his head.
4 But I wanted to beat it. When I first came out
I tried to live in the country, but they all knew
about me, and I felt as though I had the plague.
So then I shifted to Spain. There I was quiet
enough. A beautiful country—beautiful. . . .
But I was an exile all the same. I had to come
home. I had crazy notions about all sorts of
things. And then I joined up, of course; changed
my name, and by that time they wanted men so
badly they didn’t bother to ask whether I’d been
in quod or no. I was in France two years.^ And
not a thing touched me. Not a thing. I’d have
been glad enough to die, but my life was charmed.
Well, in ’Eighteen I came home and, knowing how
my feelings were, I set out to beat them. And
sometimes I have. And then again—sometimes
I haven’t.’ .
I’ve tried here to recover an impression ot the
spirit behind the words rather than the words
themselves. But that is hard indeed to recover.
There was something so touching, so alarming,
CHAP. Ill
OSMUND
57
and yet, in spite of its indecision, so determined
in the force with which Osmund spoke.
He spoke himself of 4 nerves ’ and ‘ feelings,’
and I felt as I listened that everything that had
sensitiveness in him was on edge, straining at the
leash (to mix my metaphors), for some crisis of
dramatic action. But not an action unpre¬
meditated. I realised that what he said about
the crowd and the rest was true enough, but
that it was only a background behind some act
u WaS contem pl at * n g* I realised that I
had, by a chance, tumbled in at this very hour
upon some dramatic event.
Even the room that we were in seemed to en¬
courage me in this belief. There was very little
furniture in it. The superb secretaire with the
pictured doors of red and white ivory, a lone
bare refectory table, three chairs with gilt backs;
on t e bare, stained floor two rugs, ragged and
torn, but of a lovely deep peach colour; an
ancient silver stand for holding bible or prayer-
ranrH SOI ? C ° ld church > two very old silver
candlesticks’ but the oddest thing about the
DatH^ a % the u WalIS> tHat WCre rou g h with uneven
workman W M te 1 and on them as the
for rW W ° U d i! aVC them after P^paring them
of 0 4i r j e ^j 1 ^ >er * ,^ n ? ne the walls was a mirror
glimmer
carv? n r C ° ° U / “ ? that the ° ld S P anis ^ wood ‘
fine tn‘ f en h T aS ' ° n another wall was a
bumi^ P M Ch m J Llm °g es enamel, with deep
walls, Nothing. and greenS m It- ° n the ° ther
BOOK I
58 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
Over everything there was an odd air of dust,
as though no one cared for the room properly,
and this was strange, for Osmund had been always
meticulously spruce and clean about himself and
his surroundings. This led me to look at him
more closely, and I realised that he was not now
himself as smartly brushed and cared-for as he
used to be.
The collar of his coat was dusty, his tie a little
crooked, his trousers a trifle baggy.
He had sat down beside me again, and had his
hand on my arm. .
‘ I’ll tell you something, Dick. In that cabinet
there (pointing to the secretaire) I’ve got a re¬
volver, always loaded. And one day I shouldn t
wonder but that I’ll lean over the wall and look
down into that damned Circus and take a pot at one
or two of them. No, I’m not mad far from it.
It would be a sort of protest against this modern
rush, noise, screaming and shrieking. Every-
thing’s gone from the world, Dick, that made it
worth while—all beauty and repose, all crafts¬
manship and originality. Men move like sheep
pushing after one another through the same hole
in the same fence.
‘ It will be worse and worse unless someone
makes an example, pulls things up for a moment.
There they go, round and round the Circus,
jumping the hoops, grinning the same silly grins.
And the noise never stops, never stops. 1 lie
awake at night listening to it. Rumble— rumble
—rumble. Rustle— rustle—rustle, and the little
man there was once, so grave, so quiet, working
CHAP. Ill
OSMUND
59
away in his room on a piece of wood, or a frag¬
ment of stone, making something beautiful out of
it, he’s dead, Dick—dead and buried, and every¬
one’s forgotten where his grave is.’
All the same,’ I said, ‘ I can’t see that potting
a few stray unfortunate people out of the window
is going to help matters much.’
. No—neither it will.’ He shook himself
briskly, flung back his head as though he’d
suddenly waked from a dream. ‘ Neither it will.
I talk an awful lot of rot sometimes. I haven’t
seen you for so long. That’s my excuse. Hullo 1
here’s Charlie! ’
The door opened and Buller came in. He
started on seeing me. He hadn’t expected, I
suppose, to find me still there, and the words that
be had intended to speak died on his lips.
We all three waited in silence. It was an
awkward moment for me. Something was going
on in which I had no part. So once more I said
good-bye.
‘ Let’s meet soon-’
smund stopped me. In those moments he
a made up his mind. ‘ No, hang on a minute,
, k - 1 ^ink you can help us.’
€ What is it? ’ I asked.
V..I a matter of fact, you’ve tumbled in on a
know ’ 0t * ^ ot hing much, but you may as well
Buller made a movement.
_r . i 1 1 a ^ right, Charlie. Dick’s an old friend
e You see, Dick, we’re a bit excited
S evemn g, Charlie and I, because in another
6o ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
DOOK I
hour or so we’re hoping to have a little talk with
our old friend, Mr. Pengelly.’
I nodded. ‘ I know. I saw Pengelly hang¬
ing about outside.’
* Yes. Exactly. He’d come up, I suppose,
to see how the land lay. We’ve been waiting for
this meeting a long time, Charlie and Hench and
I. We owe Pengelly something—and the rum
thing is that it’s he who has asked for the meeting.’
He was another Osmund now, with no non¬
sense about revolvers and crowds. He was smil¬
ing, his eyes were dancing, the old boyish gaiety
that I had found so attractive in former days was
here again.
* Yes. Would you believe it? He had the
cheek to write to Charlie three weeks ago—to
suggest a meeting, said he had something im¬
portant to suggest —that after the way he landed
us! Well, Charlie brought the letter to me, and
_I_I’ve arranged that he shall have a talk with
all three of us.’ # , , . ,
4 What are you going to do to him? 1 asked.
4 Do? Oh, I don’t know. We’ll see.
Frighten him a bit. He deserves it. He-’
Then we all stiffened. Someone was turning
a key in the outer door.
We all looked round. There were steps, a
pause, then the handle of the door of our room
was turned. , ,. , r
Staring, I found myself looking, wonder of
wonders at last, into the eyes of Helen Cameron.
CHAPTER IV
THE TEA-SHOP
When I looked at her I felt such happiness surge
up within me that I could be conscious of no other
feeling whatever.
And here I must interpolate this—namely,
that throughout all the extraordinary incidents
that followed, horrible, ludicrous, terrifying or
beautiful, my own feeling was in the main one of
happiness. If this chronicle does not treat death
and the anticipation of death as seriously as it
should do, I am sorry, and I make my apologies,
but the fact is that, throughout this incredible
evening, death seemed to me quite unimportant,
just as, at certain great moments in the war, it
seemed quite unimportant.
But, as you will see, it did not seem unimpor¬
tant to Hench, for instance, nor at one moment
to Pengelly.
In fact, the way that the imminence of it took
us all in different fashion is one of the reasons
for this narrative. For myself, there is just this
to be said, that from this instant of meeting Helen
a gain until that last mad moment among the roofs
^d chimneys, although I had many other emotions
6l
BOOK I
62 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
as well, my principal dominating one was of over¬
whelming, almost triumphant, happiness, although
what I had for most of the time to be triumphant
about, Heaven only knows.
If I was surprised to see Helen, that was
nothing to the surprise that she felt at seeing
me.
‘ Dickl * she cried, and for a moment she
could not move. Then she stepped forward
and took my hand. We stood there looking at
one another like two children, smiling, almost
giggling.
The first thing she said was what Osmund
had said. .
4 Dick! Your hair wants cutting.
4 That’s what I told him,’ Osmund said. At
the sound of his deep, penetrating voice I was
recalled to a wider consciousness of the world and
its affairs. I was aware of a number of rather
exciting things, as, for instance, that neither
Osmund nor Charlie Buller had expected Helen
to appear, that they were greatly disconcerted
by her appearance, that Helen had not expected
to find Charlie there and was annoyed at his
company, and that every piece of furniture in
that dusty room seemed to be aware of what was
going on. _ . .
I took in something, too, of the change in
Helen. She looked older, of course. That one
must expect. She was slimmer even than before,
so slim and slight that she was like the dark stem
of some lovely flower—some pale slender flower,
strong and reposing quietly in its beauty. She
CHAP. IV
THE TEA-SHOP
6 3
wore clothes of the same character as of old, altered
to the times, of course, but dark, cut for efficiency
and discipline, giving, in spite of all her femininity,
almost the effect of uniform. In her face was all
the kindliness and gentleness that I had so long
treasured, but also the austerity, the irony, and
now, added to these, a maturity, a sternness of
self-discipline, that had not been there before.
And on her finger was a plain gold wedding-
ring. Helen Cameron no longer, then—Helen
Osmund. . . .
I had known that it must be so, but something
—some wild, unreasoned hope—sank in me now
at the positive proof of it.
Osmund was watching her.
‘ Why, Helen,’ he cried. ‘ How delightful to
see youl What’s brought you? ’
She stood looking at all of us and smiling,
taking off her gloves. Then she sat down and,
with a quiet, leisurely movement that showed she
was quite at home there, pulled off her little soft
mouse-grey hat.
‘ I’m only up for the night,’ she said. ‘ But
1 was suddenly bored this afternoon. Mopsett
cat !. e boring, John, you know, and I thought that
a little shopping to-morrow morning would do
T e S°°d> cheer me up. But don’t you worry.
Uare s in town. I rang her up from Mopsett.
Were going to dine together—eight o’clock in
her flat.’
Osmund, while she
have made up his mind,
fined
was speaking, seemed to
‘ Right,’ he said; ‘ that’s
BOOK I
64 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
4 Well, I’ll go and wash.’ But when she
stood up she turned to me, her whole face glowing
with pleasure at seeing me. I thought there was
relief there, too, as though my presence were in
some way going to help her.
4 But you, Dick! That you should be here
like this! It’s incredible! I’ve wondered about
you again and again, where you were, what you
were doing. . . .* She broke off, I remember,
at that, aware perhaps of all the strange and pos¬
sibly terrible ways her life had been twist¬
ing since our last meeting, much aware, also,
by bitter experience, that people did not now
rush to 4 meet ’ herself and Osmund—quite the
contrary.
Nevertheless, she had only to look at me to see
the wild, tempestuous happiness I felt at finding
her again. I didn’t attempt to hide it. I should
have been wiser, possibly, and later events might
have been different, if I had. Not that Osmund,
at this time, saw anything; he was busy just now
with quite other thoughts.
She moved to the door.
4 You’re not going at once, Dick, are you.
We’ve got to have a tremendous talk. I’ve got
to know about everything—your most intimate
secrets/
‘ You shall know everything,’ I assured her.
When she was gone and the door closed
behind her we three stood looking at one
another.
Osmund swayed on
then he turned to me.
his huge legs, frowning,
Look here, Dick. There
CHAP. IV
THE TEA-SHOP
65
isn’t very much time. Helen’s turning up un¬
expectedly has rather complicated things. Would
you like to help us out? ’
‘ In what way? ’ I asked him.
* It’s like this. I was telling you about Pen-
gelly when Helen came in. Our little interview
with him won’t be quite complete unless Hench
is also there. Hench perhaps most of all, because
he’s suffered most.
‘ Now I was to have met Hench at a tea-place
by the Omnibus Theatre at six-thirty. Helen is
here, and I’d rather stay with her as things are
turning out. Buller has a job on. Would you do
that for us—go to the “ Green Plate,” meet Hench
there, and bring him here? ’
‘ The “ Green Plate”?’ I asked.
‘ Yes, yes,’ Osmund answered impatiently—
I saw that he was on edge lest Helen should
return—‘ it’s just round the corner from the
Circus, Lower Regent Street, next the Omnibus
Theatre. There’s an old man in fancy dress at
the door, with a placard on a pole—the tea-shop is
on the second floor. You can’t miss it.*
‘ What am I to say to Hench? ’ I asked.
‘ Simply say that I couldn’t come, that I’d
been intending to bring him on here to tea instead
of having it there.’
I remember that I asked then whether Hench
had been told about Pengelly. Yes, Osmund said, he
knew that this was something to do with Pengelly.
He had been longing for years to meet him again
and tell him what he thought of him, but at the
same time he was frightened of him. Funny
F
BOOK I
66 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
chap, Hench. Of course I remembered him.
Well, he was funnier now—a lot funnier—especi¬
ally since his wife died.
I said that I didn’t know that he had a wife.
Yes, Osmund said, a splendid woman. They had
been devoted to one another. She had stuck to
him all the time he’d been in prison, and then
died a week after he came out.
Very bad luck.
Very bad luck, I repeated.
Well, there it was. Osmund didn’t want to
waste time with stories about Hench s wife. The
point was, would I go? .
Then once more I asked my great question. 1
remember that I dropped my voice as though all
the world were at my elbow.
‘ Look here,’ I asked, 4 what do you mean to
do to Pengelly? ’ t XT ^ ,
‘ Do ? ’ repeated Osmund. Nothing. Only
give him a fright.’ Then he added, in a low
monotone as though he were speaking to himself,
‘ I want to know—we all want to know—why he
did what he did.*
His words seemed to have an echo the
furniture— the beautiful secretaire, the old silver
candlesticks, the gilt chairs seemed toi repeat::
1 We all want to know—why he did what he
d ' d And even—it wasn’t at the time too fanciful a
not ; on —it seemed to me that the Circus itself rose
uplo the windows and repeated-’ We all want to
know—why he did what he did.
Well, I wanted also to know—I wanted to
THE TEA-SHOP
CHAP. IV
know that and a great many other things as well.
I said I would go to meet Hench.
When I was outside the flat and starting down
the dark staircase I found that I was incredibly
refreshed. Now this was odd. I had been on
my legs all day. I had been worried and troubled
almost to insanity. Only an hour ago I had fainted
from hunger, and yet, as I went down that stair¬
case, I seemed to have wings.
I was fancying that I was taking Helen with
me, and that thought, untrue in every sense
though it was, gave me a fiery elation so that I
was ready for anyone or anything.
It was this light-headedness that made me step
out of the building into the street as though I were
going to strike off, swimming with my head up,
through a glorious sea of shining waters. I had
not at the time considered it, but in looking back
now I suddenly realised that Osmund’s room had
been lit only by candles in the silver candlesticks.
The staircase had been dimly dark, and now I was
almost, for a moment, blinded by the lights of the
Circus.
I had reached the moment—it always seems
to me a moment, as though some vast dominant
giant had snapped out a word of command—
Den ali the shops close their doors and thousands
and thousands of human beings pour out into the
streets.
London suddenly, after being a place of
mystery where every sort of transaction, dangerous,
evfl, generous, impulsive, cruel, foolish, disastrous,
nelptul, is carried through in coloured caves
68
ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS book:
defended by dark doors, is turned upside down,
inside out, and everything that was hidden and
mysterious is open and mysterious instead.
The same game is played as before, but now
all the rules are different, and these engagements,
these contracts, these purchases and agreements,
these plots and duels, are worked out in the open,
under blazing lights, before everyone’s eyes, and
the rule is that everyone must keep moving, no
one must be still for a single moment. Perhaps it
is that which decides who shall be the masters of
the world—those clever ones who are able to get
their way as easily in the enclosed corner as in the
shining blazing open. Life, indeed if it is to be
conquered, demands every kind of clever trick.
I felt at that moment, for the first time for
many months, that I could conquer it.
There they all were, out in the open, making
the Circus ring with their tramping. It was no
longer a dim pool to which the animals came to
drink their fill, but rather, under the dazzling and
jumping lights, a hard and shining arena, upon
whose stage everyone was engaged in attempting
to win the game. The game that I was out to win,
I realised with a start of surprise, was Osmund s.
I can’t possibly convey to you with how extra¬
ordinary a force, as I hesitated on the edge of the
kerb" brushed on every side by these hurrying
i - n i n mc T seemed to feel his body, dark,
fogandc winged, careen with its spreading shadow
over"all 'the Circus. He hung like a great bird
11 watching me to see that I did his
bidding. At that, I remember that just before I
CHAP. IV
THE TEA-SHOP
69
stepped out into the centre of the arena I did for a
moment hesitate and wonder what I was doing in
this affair. What was it that Buller and Osmund
were planning? Why was the miserable Pengelly
skulking about those stairs? Would it not be
better for me to leave the whole mysterious busi¬
ness and go my own way? Then I thought of
Helen—Helen in that flat with Osmund who did
not want her, alone, unwitting, Pengelly round
the corner. That decided me and I went forward.
As I pushed ahead and touched shoulders with
the crowd I recovered my normal health. It was
as though I had a moment before been sickening
for influenza. Now, stopping once again—What,
I asked myself, have I been making all this fuss
about? Yes, I said, staring into the round rosy
faces of two old women who, both short and fat,
looked as though in another instant they would
roll themselves like barrels through the crowd,
what has there been in all this but the fact that,
by accident, I have stumbled into a group of old
friends and (thank God, thank God) am in touch
once more with the woman I love? ‘ The woman
I love! I might have shouted out loud, so
exalted and excited was I at the thought of Helen
~~~ The woman I love,’ I said, and plunged into
the arena, like a gladiator, my sword flashing,
my buckler agleam, while all the thumbs at all
the upper windows prepared to turn themselves
down!
At the Omnibus Theatre they were playing a
comedy called ‘ Good-night, Charlie,’ and there
they were, rows of photographs with Charlie in
70 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
pyjamas and a pillow-case, and two ladies in two
beds, and an old gentleman in a bath-chair—all
doing the most natural things with that complete
air of unreality that theatrical photographs always
Dresent. Out of the twirling door of the Omni¬
bus Restaurant came two young men, arguing, I
most clearly remember, about some hair-restorer.
They were quite vexed with one another, and then
in through the twirling door there pushed a dis¬
dainful stout lady with bright yellow hair, and a
very thin old man, who was shivering with the
cold. And it was cold. The snow, very gently,
very softly, very kindly, was beginning to fall again.
Still on fire with my strange and unnatural
happiness, I turned the corner and very easily
found the * Green Plate \
In the doorway was a sort of Father Christmas,
a peaked hat of dirty grey on his head, his woolly
beard a little askew and the hand that held the
advertising sign extremely dirty.
On the sign was printed 4 Ye Greene Plate,
and then a picture of the same. As I passed the
old man he dug out from the pocket of his very
shabby gown a very dirty handkerchief and pro¬
ceeded to lift his beard that he might the better
blow his nose. You say that I cannot after these
years remember that old man’s beard ? Wait and
see whether I had not cause to remember it!
I climbed the staircase and found myself inside
a room that was littered with little tables and quite
empty save for two waitresses who sat together in a
corner like wax figures from Madame Tussaud s
It was, of course, not the hour for any sort ot
CHAP. IV
THE TEA-SHOP
7 i
meal. Here the cave was empty. All the action
of life had passed into the open. I sat down at a
table near the window. One of the automata
approached me, yawning behind her hand. I
ordered a pot of tea and a muffin. She passed,
still yawning, to a hole in the wall, and, galvanised
into a sudden almost unearthly excitement (as
though I had whispered in her ear that the Last
Trump was about to sound), shouted down it,
‘ Pototeamuffin —one,’ then wandered back to
her chair, where she took on again the waxen
immobility of a dummy.
I looked through my window on to walls that
were like rough and jagged rocks. Here the
light was dim, figures passed like shades, and you
might see at any moment old Charon approach
with his boat. The prehistoric monsters played
up the hill, and at the edge of the rocky cliffs you
could hear the dim ‘ flap-flap ’ of the sluggish
waters.
Then the door was pushed open and Hench
came in. He was not difficult to recognise—
that big, flabby, misshapen body like a bolster,
with the small round head set on the top of it, and
on the head perched a bowler ridiculously minute.
It was characteristic of him that he should carry
an umbrella, untidily folded, that bulged like a
cabbage. He exactly resembled, as he stood there,
a figure of the music-halls, stout in the wrong
places, unhappy, bewildered, about to burst into
a piping and desperate little song.
* ^ e J ooked about him, opened his mouth at the
sight of the two waitresses, shut it again, then saw
BOOK I
72 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
me. Like Charlie Buller he failed to recognise
me. He was moving towards another place. I
got up and came to meet him, and we stood to¬
gether in the middle of the desert of the little
tables like Stanley meeting Livingstone.
‘Hullo, Hench! * I cried. ‘Don’t you re¬
member me? ’
He stared, gaped, dropped his umbrella,
picked it up again:
4 No,’ he said in his funny emasculated voice.
4 I’m afraid . . .’
4 Dick Gunn,’ I said.
He jumped almost out of his fat skin then, was
as shy, confused, pleased and apprehensive as a
girl at her first party. I could see at once that
he wasn’t sure (that he hadn’t been sure, poor
devil, for many a day) whether I or anyone else
would care to be found speaking to him in public.
So I reassured him by catching his arm and pulling
him with me over to my table by the window.
He sat down without a word: the automaton
appeared, and I ordered tea and a muffin for him.
4 Are you hungry? Would you like a poached
ecrcr or something? I asked him.
4 No, no,’ he said hurriedly. ‘ Indeed, no.
Not at all.’ , , , • _
I proceeded at once (because he was shaking
with apprehension) to explain things to him. He
had been expecting to meet Osmund here, but
Osmund was detained and wanted me to take him
on to the flat—only a yard away, across the Circus.
He was, it seemed, completely overwhelmed
by my appearance. I was the very last person he
THE TEA-SHOP
CHAP. IV
had expected to see. He had been in two minds
whether he would come at all.
‘ Yes—you see, Gunn, meeting Osmund again
after all this time—what I mean to say—it’s
bringing back unhappy memories, very unhappy
indeed.’
‘ Haven’t you seen him, then,’ I asked,
‘ since-? ’ I paused.
‘ No,’ Hench broke in hurriedly. ‘ Not for
five years—that is, for nearly five. The last time
was at Eastbourne, quite by accident—on the
Front. We had a ittle talk. I mean, you
couldn’t call that a real meeting-’
No, you couldn’t,’ I agreed seriously.
To give any real impression of Hench’s con¬
versation is very difficult. It was the oddest,
strangest kind of twittering, as though a canary
had escaped from its cage and were trying to tell
one about his imprisonment. But this small,
shrill, wandering, little voice came out of a body
that might have been magnificent had it been
properly cared for.
Hench was I suppose, every bit of six foot, and
broad with it, but he was made of that dull white,
doughy kind of fat that runs into little rolls of
Hesh at the back of the neck, under the eyes, be¬
tween the fingers. His hair also was so light-
coloured as to be almost invisible. In his bath he
must have looked like an enormous upright bolster,
let his was not an unpleasant face; it was kindly,
honest, genuine. Now, with his many troubles
it was overclouded with a shadow of nervous un¬
happiness. And he moved, as I had already
74 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
noticed in Osmund and Buller, as though he be¬
longed to some sect apart from the common race
of men.
As a matter of fact, I saw in another moment
an expression that transformed him.
‘ What does Osmund ask me for? ’
‘ He wants you to meet Pengelly,’ I answered
shortly.
Then I saw a change!
He became in a flash a dangerous animal.
His body seemed to stiffen, his hand straightened
out, hard and taut, against the table.
‘ Pengelly . . .’ he repeated. 4 At last . . . he’s
turned up again.’
He forgot me, I think, for a moment or two;
just sat there, his head bent forward, thinking,
remembering. The waitress brought us our
food. I busied myself with it. Hench swal¬
lowed his tea blindly, without knowing what he
was doing. Then he began in a strange trem¬
bling monotone, staring before him out beyond
the window to those dark rocky cliffs and the
flowing Styx. Once and again he dropped an
4 h ’ once and again he muddled a word, but, as I
remember it, it flowed on in a scarcely hindered
stream as though I had turned a handle and this
were a recorded disc. , n
‘ You were always a good friend to me, Gunn,
or I think you were. What I mean to say, it s
hard to know, after all that's happened who you
can trust. But I don’t care—you can t do me any
-arm now. Nobody can. I mean to say, it s too
late now for anything to matter much.
CHAP. IV
THE TEA-SHOP
75
He went back then to the very beginning of the
story, how he and his wife and kid had been up
against things, didn’t know where to turn for a
job.
‘ You can’t judge me, Gunn,’ I remember his
saying, ‘ because you’ve never been up against it,
and until a fellow has been it isn’t fair to talk.’
(Lord, if he only knew!) Well, then he met
Charlie Buller, an old acquaintance, and Buller
invited him down to the seaside to talk things
over. Down he went, and soon he saw what
Buller was after. Now the thing that he most
urgently wanted to explain to me was that neither
Buller nor himself had intended to ‘ do anything
really dirty.* It had begun with some grudge
that Buller had against Borlass. He wanted to
give the conceited swine a bit of a fright. Hench
had to admit that after a while it became some¬
thing much more concrete than that. He couldn’t
deny, when I put it to him, that they had in¬
tended to rob Lady Borlass of some of her jewels,
and then, driven into a corner, he fell back on the
old Robin Hood ’ line of argument that the
Borlass party was rich and disgusting and mean,
and that here was he with his wife and kid
starving. . . .
All right,’ I broke in. ‘ We can cut all that,
Hench. I’m not saying that I wouldn’t have
robbed Lady Borlass myself if I’d had the chance.
Drop the excuses.’
But he wouldn’t and he couldn’t. I could see
that this had been, for years now, with him a
constant and persistent preoccupation, that he had
76 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
gone over the same ground again and again and
again, that in the long sleepless nights his soul,
alone with its Maker in the bitter dark, wailed out
its excuses and found in that wailing no possible
sort of comfort. No, he was not a villain, poor
Hench, nor ever intended for one.
I moved him on at last, and it was plain enough
that his final action had been determined by
Buller’s highly coloured picture of Borlass’s villainy
(for Borlass was no villain, only a fool), his con¬
sciousness of the hunger of his wife and child, and,
by far the strongest influence, quite outweighing
all the rest, his worship of Osmund.
Yes, worship, it seems, was not too strong a
word for his feeling for Osmund at that time.
Osmund had seemed to him simply the most
miraculous creation, a kind of God in human form.
Osmund was everything that Hench was not, a
gentleman, of magnificent physique, of superb
courage, infinite wisdom—and so on, and so on.
When Hench learnt that Osmund was also ot
the venture he hesitated no longer. He realised,
of course, that Osmund was going into it from
no common motives of burglary, that it was from
hatred of Borlass, and from a kind of mad, wild
desire ‘ to do him one in the eye. Hench had
always afterwards believed (and in this he was, I
daresav correct) that Osmund would have pre-
Jente/any real robbery, and would have turned
the whole affair into some wild, desperate practical
ioke stripping Borlass naked and throwing him
fnto’the garden-pond, or tying h,m to the din.ng-
tabie, something crazy, childish and vain.
CHAP. IV
THE TEA-SHOP
77
In any case, the theme changed to Pengelly,
and here I saw at once that on this subject Hench
was not sane. He became now strangely unreal,
as though the true normal Hench had jumped
out of the window into the Styx and his place
had been taken by a quivering madman whose
brain was quietly boiling with insanities.
He considered, you see, that Pengelly was the
murderer of his wife.
At the mention of his wife his face, pale in any
case, was drained of all shadow of colour.
‘ You see, Gunn, she was a wonderful woman.
You never saw her. What I mean to say, you
couldn’t really appreciate her without seeing her.
She was one of those women who, the worse things
are, the fonder they get of you. She didn’t want
to marry me at first, and I’m sure I couldn’t blame
er * I asked her six times over before she’d listen,
and then it was to escape her stepmother as much
as anything. What I mean is she wasn’t really
happy at home—not likely to be with her father
giving in to his second wife over everything and
never considering his children.
Anyway she came to me the sixth time I asked
her, and from that moment we were the happiest
pair in England. Never a cross word. She was
an angel if ever there was one.’
He paused to wipe his forehead, on which there
were beads of perspiration. His appearance was
no longer ludicrous to me. I knew again that
there was something here deeply real, and some¬
thing close to me, for which I could feel, in my
own way, a sort of protective affection.
BOOK I
78 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
‘ You see, Gunn, she believed in me right away
from the very beginning when nobody else did.
I wouldn’t be where I am now, wouldn’t ’ave ’ad
any of that special printing knowledge I got if
she hadn’t urged me on and seen where my tastes
lay. What I mean is there’s nothing like a woman
whom you’re in love with for making a man be¬
lieve in himself if she wants to. . . . And she
made me believe in myself. Then we had our kid,
the prettiest little girl, Gunn, she was, and after
that everything went wrong. .
‘ I lost my job at the printing works in Reading
through no fault of my own, both the wife and
child fell ill, and I got sort of desperate. It
wouldn’t ’ave been so bad if Clara had been up
and about, but with her sick and the child not
having enough to eat—what I mean is that it
would drive any man sort of desperate—and I
never was as strong a character as Clara wanted
me to be-’ , ,
No, he wasn’t a strong character, and he was
a good deal weaker now than he had been then.
Kindliness and friendliness had been, I daresay, his
undoing. Anything to make people pleased with
him. A despicable desire, the sterner ironist may
declare, but all the nicest people suffer from it.
Yes he was off his head with worry, and so
the rest’easily followed. He went down to Hewlett
and fell under the influence first of Buller and
then, far more thoroughly, of ° sn J u " d - ° n f.
the chief attractions that Osmund had for him
was hit his wife, Clara, would have thought the
world of him.
CHAP. IV
THE TEA-SHOP
79
He was exactly the kind of man that she had
always been hoping Hench would one day have
as a friend. His imagination united Clara and
Osmund together in a sort of sentimental embrace
—his wife and his best friend—all three of them
passing blissfully to the Elysian Fields together!
Poor Hench! It turned out for him far other¬
wise. First Osmund, then Pengelly, and ruin in
their train.
He made no excuses for himself save this poor
futile argument that he and Charlie Buller had
never really intended ‘ to do anything dirty.’
But the villainy of Pengelly left him bewildered.
Like Osmund, he wanted to know what made
him do it. Certainly not a love of law and order,
for a more abandoned scoundrel than Pengelly
you couldn’t find anywhere. He had been be¬
traying them, it seemed, from the very first, urging
Buller on, making it all easy, arranging with some¬
one to take the stuff after it had been stolen. It
was not greed of money that attracted him, it
was not even hatred of Osmund, whom from the
first moment he detested: he had, it seemed,
arranged to betray Buller and Hench long before
he knew that Osmund was to be in the affair.
All incredible, all motiveless. ‘ What I mean,’
sam Hench, ‘ is that we weren’t worth all his
trouble -we weren’t important enough. Any¬
way that s how it was . . . and Clara stuck to
rne all the time I was in prison and died a week
alter I came out.’
. died thinking that Pengelly was still pur¬
suing them. She was haunted by the face and
8o ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
voice of Pengelly, and she would cry out his name
in her sleep and shiver with terror of him in her
last delirium.
After her death Hench simply waited for the
day when he would meet Pengelly again. All
through his regular quiet life—for he found
work with people who trusted him, and rose
steadily in their esteem, all through the unvarying
loneliness of his days—his child had died when
he was in prison—this thought had persisted that
the time would come when he would meet Pen¬
gelly face to face and tell him what he thought
of him. But for years he never heard of him nor
of Buller, and had only that one meeting with
Osmund at Eastbourne. Then had come a line
from Osmund asking for this rendezvous, and at
last from my lips he had learnt the reason of it.
Now, as I sat opposite him at this shabby
little table, some of the hatred that he had for
Pengelly passed to myself. I had always loathed
him, but now it was as though I, too, had been
betrayed by him, and I, too, had waited all these
years to repay a little of what I owed.
And I felt also some of that struggle that was
going on in Hench’s heart, the struggle between
his natural sentimental love for his fellow human
beings, his desire to be liked by them and to like
them in return, and this hot, corroding hatred that
never left him, that turned and turned in his
heart like a wild animal lying uneasily there.
‘ Well, I’ll come,’ said Hench, staring beyond
me into space. * I’ll see Osmund again—yes,
and Pengelly too.’
CHAP. IV
THE TEA-SHOP
81
Then, as I rose up to pay the bill, I knew that
I was at last being drawn into their affair, that
there was no escape for me. I had an odd breath¬
lessness as though I had been running.
Yes, there was no doubt about it. I was in it
now—up to the neck.
G
CHAPTER V
PENGELLY ON EARTH
As we passed by Father Christmas into the open
air, I realised that it had become, during this last
half-hour, very much colder.
Snow was now falling with a soft determina-
tion, settling against the cheek like the touch
of a dove’s wing, touching the hand with an in¬
timacy that seemed to be the privilege of oneself
al °The air was colder, and the arena wore now a
fiercer colour. Through the snow all the sky-
signs danced in a fresh activity, and the white
surface that began thinly to encrust the paths and
borders made the walls and roofs velvet in a dim
and gentle dusk. The hour of release from the
caves g had completely passed, and now the arena
was filled with figures all bent upon the warfare of
evening-warfare of all kinds, duels between
man and woman, between woman and woman,
dog and rat, elephant and spider, boa-constr.ctor
d § rhinoceros All the combatants could be
Ll moving to their especial places, and over
everything there was the pause and hush of pre-
paration. ^
CHAP. V
PENGELLY ON EARTH
83
I had my own drama to prepare for, but
at the moment my particular care was that
Hench should come to no harm. I was aware
that his nerves were in no very controlled state,
that a talk with Pengelly after brooding on that
very thing for so long might swing him easily
intoawor d of uncontrolled melodrama. We had,
in fact, almost immediately an instance of his
nervousness.
As we passed the doors of the Omnibus
Restaurant three young men in evening dress
came hurrying out, very happy, very noisy, having
started what would surely be a jolly evening in
exactly the proper spirit.
Beyond the spinning doors they joined arm-in¬
arm, and, their top-hats a trifle tilted, came surging
into us. °
Sorry, old top,’ someone shouted. '
Hench staggered back. He turned, trem-
bling, on to them.
Why can t you look where you’re going? ’
he called out in his funny, tremulous, piping voice.
■Do you call that manners not to-*
, ^ were far beyond him, half-way across
the Circus, gay, defiant gladiators, raising their
swords to the Emperor and the thronging audience,
ready, eager to meet with every challenger.
J caught his arm.
joUy f 11 ri S ht > Henc V I said, ‘ they’re only a bit
He was trembling all over. I caught suddenly
some sense of his own fear. The Circus seemed
to be, at that instant, crowded with shining,
84 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
ferocious, determined figures resolved that we
should not pass. I caught his arm, feeling an
odd tenderness and affection for him.
4 It’s all right, Hench,’ I repeated. ‘ It’s all
right,’ as though he had been a child. I conveyed
him across, and brought him safely to the door.
Going up the dark, twisting staircase he ex¬
plained. ‘ You see, Gunn, it means a good bit
to me, this does. What I mean to say is that
meeting Osmund and Buller again, well, it s
like old times, and not very pleasant old times
Clt Half-way up, at the very spot where I had
watched Pengelly listening, he paused, catching
^‘Took here, Gunn,’ he said, ‘ I don't think
I’ll go on if you don’t mind. I’m not quite my¬
self to-night, and seeing Pengelly again I don t
know what I mightn’t do and say. I don t, really.
What I mean is that I’m not in proper control ot
myself. I’m not, really.
y I quieted and soothed him. I assured him
that nobody was going to harm Pengel y (I
wasn’t at all sure of this myself), that it.would.do
him good to see his old friends again, that he had
given his word to Osmund that he would see him
I persuaded him, and a moment later I rang the
bell of Osmund s flat. , Thiller
It was Buller who opened the door. Bulle
and Hench seemed glad to see one another.
‘ Hullo, Charlie.’ _ . . ,
4 Well Percy, how are you? Come along in.
We came in. Buller led Hench into the
CHAP. V
PENGELLY ON EARTH 85
sitting-room, then came back to me while I was
hanging up my coat. He dropped his voice.
‘ I say, Gunn, wait a minute.’ I paused. He
told me then that Osmund had gone out with his
wife. Osmund was very anxious that his wife
should not meet Pengelly. 4 A man’s affair this,’
I remember Buller’s saying. 4 We don’t want any
women around.’ So Osmund had seen his wife
safely to her destination. Osmund also did not
want Hench to meet Pengelly before Osmund
returned, so he, Buller, was going to take
Hench out with him for half an hour to have
a drink.
And that was where I came in. I was, after
all, thoroughly 4 in ’ this by this time. I had
proved myself their friend—would I help them
yet further? Would I stay in Osmund’s flat and
receive Pengelly when he came, see that he didn’t
get away?
4 We don’t want to frighten him,’ Charlie
Buller said. 4 Just when he’s been so kind as to
like to see us again.’
4 Look here, Charlie,’ I said, 4 I must get this
clear. What are you and Osmund planning to do
to Pengelly? '
4 Nothing,’ Buller answered. 4 Nothing at all.
We want to have a little talk with him, that’s all.’
He stood, his legs planted, sucking an imaginary
straw. He grinned, came close to me, put his
hand on my shoulder.
4 You’d like to have a look at him yourself,
wouldn’t you? ’ he asked me.
4 All right,’ I said. 4 I’ll wait.’
86 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
A moment later Hench came out smiling. He
seemed to have lost all his nervousness.
‘ Charlie and I are going out for a drink.’ He
nodded at me.
‘ All right,’ I said.
But my word, it was funny when I was left alone
in that flat! I don’t know that ever before in
my life I had experienced a queerer sensation. It
isn’t nearly enough to say that it was queer because
of what I was expecting would shortly occur there,
although there was something of that in it, nor
that it was queer because of the effect that Osmund’s
personality cast over it, nor that it was queer because
I was in any case wildly excited, a little light¬
headed with my starving, poverty, and joy that I
had found Helen again. There was something
besides these. I started a tour of inspection and
the first thing that I saw was my volume of
Quixote lying demurely on the gaunt refectory
table. And wasn’t I glad to see it! It was a
reminder that this fantastic adventure into which
I had plunged was only one facet of a life that
was on the whole always normal and sane.
Sancho Panza’s joy at seeing his ass returning
to him again was not greater than mine at seeing
Sancho Panza once more. It was a small flat; the
sitting-room, two bedrooms, the bathroom and a
minute kitchen. The smaller bedroom was plainly
a servant’s room from the photograph of a young
woman all smiles and flowers on the dressing-
table. . . *
The larger bedroom was monastic in its
simplicity. It led directly out of the sitting-room,
CHAP. V
PENGELLY ON EARTH
87
an important fact, as I was to discover later on in
the evening. The floor was stained and its only
covering was a Persian rug, a dull biscuit-gold in
colour with little trees of a dark purple worked
round the border. There was a small, very hard-
looking bed of black wood, a chest of drawers
with twisted handles of brass, a mirror of
dark wood lined with silver, and some very old
silver hair-brushes, badly dented. There was a
cupboard and there were two cane-bottomed
chairs. There were no pictures on the walls.
The point of the room was that on the bed was
lying a woman’s hat, and on one of the chairs a
pair of woman’s gloves. Helen’s! I picked up
the gloves and put them in my pocket. It was so
instinctive an act that now, looking back, I believe
that I was unaware that I did it.
It was one of the many silly acts of my very
silly life and I was to repent it sufficiently before
all was over.
. I went back to the sitting-room and stood
in admiration before that secretaire of which
I have already spoken. It was one of the
loveliest things 1 The little red and white panels
were as fresh as though they had been painted
only yesterday, the pictures enchanting in their
gaiety and fun; the whole effect of colour was so
deep and rich that it seemed to stain all the room
to a finer glow.
The thick purple curtains were not drawn. I
went to the windows and looked out. The snow
had for a moment ceased to fall. Although its
covering of the Circus must have been very slight,
88 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
the white glow gave an iridescent shine to the air,
and all the little black figures hurried like dolls
pulled by hidden strings about the scene. How
self-important they all were! I could fancy myself
standing in the shadow of those curtains and, with
a rifle, picking them off one after another. How
ludicrous the sudden starts they would give, how
silently they would lie like blots of ink against the
snow, while over them the lights of the advertise¬
ments, the stars—the golden flask, the appearing
and disappearing letters would move, the only live
things in all the world.
Not that I was bloodthirsty—far, far from it—
but from the height where I was nothing below
me had human life. So God, yawning up on His
lonely cloud, must so often feel!
The bell rang. It broke into the flat like a
menacing tap on the shoulder. I went to the hall
door, opened it, and there stood Pengelly.
It was my fate that evening to surprise my old
friends but I can have surprised none of them more
than Pengelly. I thought for a moment that he
was going to turn and run. He did, indeed, step
back into the passage , Y ,
‘ Come in, Mr. Pengelly, I said. You re
eX? He looked me all over. How I detested him
at that moment! Then he shrugged his shoulders.
‘ I hadn’t expected to sec you, Mr. Ounn,
he said. ‘ It’s quite a long time since we last
m£ So long in fact that I had forgotten a peculiar¬
ity in his voice, a way that he had of sucking in
CHAP. V
PENGELLY ON EARTH
89
word every once and again, as though it had
escaped him by accident and he only caught it
just in time.
‘ Yes,’ I answered, standing aside to let him
in. ‘ Better late than never.’
He gave me another look—malevolent, in¬
quisitive and puzzled—then came inside.
He took off his hat and coat and stepped into
the sitting-room. He moved always, as well I
remembered, as though at any moment he might
have to hide behind a curtain or a door. Now he
stood there, his bony head bent forward, his thin
arms and legs a little spread as though they too
were listening.
Doesn t Osmund keep any servants? ’ he
asked.
I really don’t know,’ I answered. ‘ But at
the moment I’m the only person in the flat. You
are a little early for your appointment.’
He said nothing to that, but looked all round
the room like a dog sniffing.
candkis™ 7 th ‘ ng ' N ° eleCtrk l! ght. Only
‘ Osmund’s fancy, I daresay,’I answered. ‘I
light 0 ’ hC tHmkS h ‘ S thm6S l0 ° k be “ er in cand!e -
. , , Pcn8e ! , y then Ffked up my Quixote from the
tab e and it was all I could do not to shout out
that he was to leave it alone. However, he gave
a contemptuous sniff and put it down again. Then
he settled himself into the Spanish arm-chair, and
his thm, mean little body seemed to curl itself up
like an animal s, into a bony heap, and from this
BOOK I
90 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
his head, with protuberant, naked forehead and
greedy, quivering nostrils, jutted out.
4 Now, Mr. Gunn, I’d like to know what
you’re doing here,’ he said.
I smiled. 4 That’s all right, Pengelly,’ I
answered. 4 I’m Osmund’s guest for the moment.’
4 Well, it isn’t all right,’ he answered. 4 I’m
here on business with Buller and Osmund, and
it’s nobody else’s affair.’
4 Quite so,’ I answered. 4 It certainly isn’t my
affair, and I won’t stay if I’m not wanted. But
it will be twenty minutes or so before Osmund
comes back, so we may as well put up with one
another until then.*
He looked at me with scornful patronage.
4 Fancy you turning up again. I’ve heard of
you once or twice. Not been doing too well, have
y ° But it wasn’t my purpose to quarrel with him
just then. I wanted to know one or two
4 ^sTo ’ I answered. 4 To tell you the truth, I
haven’t. As a matter of fact, that’s what I wanted
to speak to you about. When I heard that you
were coming I hoped that there would be a chance
of a word with you privately. I don t know wha
it is you’re suggesting to Osmund and Buller, but
I don’t see why, if it’s a good thing, I shouldn t
bC Amazfng 0 °i*s the vanity of man! A moment
earlier he had been regarding me with the deepest:
suspicion— now, so deep and rooted was his con¬
ceit that, at one word from me, his suspicions
CHAP. V
PENGELLY ON EARTH
9i
vanished. His contempt for me, however, only
deepened.
He rubbed his thin long fingers together.
‘ So you’re down and out, are you? Well, I’m
not surprised. . . .* He became suddenly con¬
fidential. ‘ Look here. You can tell me some¬
thing. I was taking a bit of a risk suggesting this
meeting. Of course, Osmund and Buller only
got what they were asking for over that burglary
business. They’d have been caught anyway.
But I couldn’t expect them to feel especially
friendly to me over it. Yes, it was a bit bold
suggesting a meeting, but that’s why I’m where I
am to-day. I’ve taken risks all my life long and
they’ve always come off. But you can tell me,
Gunn. Ain’t they sore about that old business? ’
* They were a bit sore,’ I answered, ‘ for a
while. Naturally. They’ve always been puzzled
why you let them in as you did.’
I had my own reasons,’ he answered, with
immense self-satisfaction. ‘As a matter of fact, I
didn t do them any harm. They’d have been
caught anyway. They were babies at it. And I
did myself a bit of good—rather necessary for me
just then, as it happened, to be in with the police.*
‘ I see,’ I answered, noddi
clever of you.’
t And you think they’re not sore any longer? ’
‘ Oh, well,’ I replied, ‘ it was all a long while
'• It’s no use bearing grudges all your life.*
He seemed to be greatly relieved.
That’s what I thought,’ he said, sucking his
words down his throat.
• 1
nodding my head. ‘ Very
ago
92
ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
‘ All the same,’ I went on, ‘ I’m not sure that
they’ll be eager to trust you again.’
‘ Oh, they needn’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘ I
won’t let them down this time. If they like,
they’re in for a good thing—a very good thing
indeed.’
‘ What kind of a thing? ’ I asked, a trifle too
eagerly perhaps.
He looked at me through his narrow, evil eyes,
then shook his wicked head.
‘ Not quite so fast,’ he answered. ‘ I haven t
said that you’re in on this, have I? ’ He nodded
his self-satisfaction. ‘ I’m glad they’re sensible.
They need someone with a brain to advise them.
Buller’s no fool if he’s started in the right direc¬
tion, but Osmund—I never had any opinion of
Osmund’s intelligence. Always in the air. Never
knows what he’s doing. ^ But he’ll have to know
this time and do what he’s told.’
I’ve tried to give you some idea of the way that
this conversation went, but if I hadn t heard . lt:
with my own ears, I never would have believed it.
I perceived that with Pengelly, as with all true
criminals, self-pride, conceit, arrogance amounted
to insanity. This self-confidence, this conviction
that they are not as other men but are made alto-
gether of another day, is the spring of all their
actions, the reason, too, of their inevitable defeat
It is true, perhaps, that they are beings of another
mould from the rest of mankind, that the rules and
motives of their daily lives, of their ambitions,
desires conquests and defeats belong mentally,
spiritually, pV icall y> to another planCt ’ a P
PENGELLY ON EARTH
CHAP. V
dark and separate, burning with its own baleful
secret fire.
True motiveless wickedness, however, is so
rare that Pengelly was a fascinating object to me.
So rare and not rare at all. By that I mean that
any evil human being who is without conscience
or any sense of shame attracts us because it seems
to us that we might so easily be like him. Throw
over one little scruple, one little moral hesitation,
and there we are, and what a fine time we might
be having. The real characteristic of this post¬
war world of ours is not that it is especially
amoral or bold or advanced, but that the reasons
against our acting foolishly, badly or ruinously are
so many fewer than they used to be.
As Pengelly continued to talk there were parts
of me that rose like awakening animals in response
to him. Parts of me were like that, and there
were more parts of me that could be like that were
they given any encouragement. It was not the
remoteness of Pengelly’s evil mind and life that,
in retrospect, horrified one, but rather its closeness
and intimacy. It is absurd to pretend that evil is
not infective; it is as infective as measles or
scarlet fever, and often as fascinating as a full meal
to a hungry man.
Pengelly would never have been as confidential
in this little talk of ours had he not despised me
so thoroughly, but I was a poor, weak fool of a
railure, and there is nothing that a man like
Pengelly values so highly as an audience that is so
rar below him that it can admire without danger of
retaliation.
BOOK I
94 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
So he let himself go. He told me a little of
what he had been doing during these last years.
His favourite game was blackmail, his favourite
game and, I gathered, his principal source of
income. He assured me that I had no idea how
simple and easy it was—even, he implied, for a
poor, silly, soft fool like myself. Everyone had his
or her secret, and all you had to do was to discover
it and then play with the victim as you would with
a trout.
As he spoke, the world began to take colour
from his stories, and soon I saw it in groups of
cowering, quivering men and women, bending
their backs, falling on to their knees, raising their
hands for pity while Pengelly stole in and out
among them, his bony head a little thrust for¬
ward, his hands crossed behind his back.
Men had hanged themselves to escape him,
women suffered the last ignominy, even children
had been betrayed. But the astonishing thing
was that it became clear, as he proceeded, that he
regarded himself as an entirely virtuous being.
It was the whole race of men that was at fault.
The fools that men were who, for some lust of the
body or mean desire of gain or cheap revenge, put
themselves so naively, so simply into his hands.
He saw himself as a kind of immortal judge
walking about among men and punishing justly
follies. . , ,
Of his own cleverness also he never could have
enough. He had, I am sure, learnt a good deal
about the different weaknesses of mankind, ffven
during this short time that we were together I
chap, v PENGELLY ON EARTH
95
learnt some surprising things, and I have no
doubt that he was speaking truthfully enough.
But very soon his voice and personality per¬
vaded all the room; it crawled like a snake here
and there, its little sharp, bright eyes peering into
every corner as it dragged its sluggish, gleaming
coils from corner to corner. It seemed to me
that the Circus below us was soon aware of its
presence, and that all those little manikin figures
hastened into the shadows that they might escape
^ij^e white shining surface of the Circus was bare
and naked: Everywhere there was a breathless
silence, and from the roofs that bordered it the
sharp ey es looked down, piercing every shadow... .
. Mea nwhile time was passing, and I was begin¬
ning to wonder why they had not returned.
Pengelly also began to wonder.
Look here, he said, taking out his watch and
laenlv InnIri nor un _«
/ —•
' WdL i,', iTomr„"SST’ ,
■;= cv;nl "e to waste, you know/
Oh, he II turn up, I said. • You were early.
And I m very glad you were. See here Pen-
g£ . 1 ' W u C “ 1 you let .™ e in on this plan of yours? ’
What use would you be? ’ he asked con-
temptuously. You’re too soft.’
Oh, I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘ I’ m not so
rouph I' “I,! 0 be i y ° U kn0W - IVe had a pretty
rough tune these last years, and that changes a
‘ We’ll see,’ he replied. ‘ Of course, you talk
96 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
and behave like a gentleman. That’s in your
favour. There’s nobody like a gentleman for
taking people in.’
‘ Is that so? ’ I answered innocently. ‘ Why’s
that? ’
* Well, with women, for instance,’ Pengelly
answered with immense satisfaction. ‘ Women
always trust a gentleman more. Can’t think
why they should, but there it is. I should think
women might like you if you smartened yourself
up a bit.* .
‘ Yes,’ I said ruefully, ‘ I want a hair-cut, and, to
be frank’with you, I haven’t had a decent meal for
^^His suspicions were now entirely quieted. I
could see that I was just the kind of help that he
needed, a fool, a gentleman, down and out, ready
to fill my belly at anybody’s cost, very quickly
succumbing to all his wishes and demands.
That was a knowledge that I don t doubt he
had to the full—how to subdue weaklings to his
slightest word with a swift and subtle course of
training. No wonder that he should think poorly
of the human race when he had seen so many
of them so quickly surrender!
In fact, he had a kind of power, even for a
moment, over myself, although I sat there loath¬
ing him, deriding him, thmk.ng myself vastly his
<;iinerior It is strange when you consider how,
jus P t then, each of us thought himself infinitely the
kinp of the other! . T
There followed the oddest ten minutes—I was
going to say ‘ of my life,’ but there were to be
CHAP, V
PENGELLY ON EARTH
97
other strange ten minutes before this odd evening
was over. He got up and began to creep about
the room. ‘ Creep * is a true word; he moved so
softly, with his head forward, his hands clasped
like twisting tentacles behind his back. His walk
was, I think, a kind of triumphant march; I don’t
doubt but that he had determined on this move
into the enemy’s camp after a great deal of doubt
and hesitation. I shouldn’t wonder if he had
been spying round the place all day. I myself,
you will remember, had caught him on the stairs
earlier in the evening. He had come here with
many fears and misgivings, and it must have been
a pretty important scheme that led him to such
dangerous methods.
He argued, I suppose, that Osmund and Buller
would be in fierce need of some help, and he hoped,
perhaps, to add some gentle blackmail to his
scheme. Gentlemen, rash gentlemen, like Os¬
mund, who have served their time in gaol, are
often open to blackmail. Life isn’t easy for a
gentleman who has done time.
But against all this were the tempers and
possible violence of his old friends. He couldn’t
be sure that they wouldn’t be very disagreeable
before he had time to explain to them how good
his scheme for them was. Once they gave him
time, the rest was easy, and I expect that he had
some very pretty pictures before his eyes of the
helpless and useless tools that Osmund and Buller
would become.
My reassurance, therefore, was extremely wel¬
come to him. This was exactly what he had
H
98 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
hoped he might find—the poor fools, crushed and
hungry, all sight lost of any silly vengeance, ready
for anything that he might propose—and added
to them, quite unexpectedly, myself, an admirable
4 extra.’ . .
So he crept about the room, humming to him¬
self in a little whining undertone, an unrecogms-
able tune. This sound was exactly like the hum
or sibilant whisper of some animal hiding ex¬
pectantly in the jungle undergrowth Thin,
reedy, just not in tune, hissing through the teeth.
Softly he inspected everything—the secretaire,
the triptych, the Spanish carving, the chairs
They seemed to rouse in him only the deepest
Then he came to the window, and, pausing
there, pressed his nose against the glass and
Stared out. Although other more striking things
were to happen in connection with him later in
thr evening that is the pose in which I shall
always remember him. His thin, shabbily clad
bod/(his clothes had an especial shiny shabbiness.
They had been always, ever since I first knew
him in exactly that same condition) perched on
its toes and his head pressed '?he
the class while he looked down, finding in the
Circus, I don’t doubt, numbers of prospective
ViCt And once again I had, from my chair the
• • t he white surface covered with little
a™ *
CHAP. V
PENGELLY ON EARTH
99
little in some mysterious breeze. He turned round
and looked at me—looked at me, I felt, with both
triumph and contempt.
‘ So you’d like to come in with me, would
you? ’ he asked. 4 Ever had any experience? ’
‘ Experience of what? ' 1 asked.
‘ Why, of playing on people’s feelings . . .
having a game with them.’
‘ You mean blackmail? ’ I asked.
‘ Well, no. . . .* His tongue flickered out for
a moment between his teeth. * That’s putting it
too strong. I don’t like the word, and the less it’s
used the better for everybody.*
He left the window and came close to me, his
eyes appraising every part of me. * Remember
Robin Hood? ’
‘ Remember him? ’ I asked. * I never met
him, if that’s what you mean.’
But facetiousness did not please him. I recol¬
lect very clearly the savage, mean look he then
gave me. It was a look that, I am sure, many of
his friends in trouble had grown accustomed to.
‘No need to be funny,’ he said. 4 No time for
it if you’re coming in with me. . . . Well, what
did Robin Hood do? He went about taking
money from the rich and giving it to the poor,
righting wrongs, so to speak. He and his band
were proper for his time, I and mine are proper
for this. Same methods exactly.’
‘ I see,’ I answered. 4 And do you give your
profits to the poor? *
He shot at me again a look of swift suspicion.
‘ Never you mind what I give to the poor,’
ioo ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS book.
he said. ‘ You’ll see soon enough.’ He began
then, standing in front of me, as strange a glory-
song as ever man uttered—a Song of Triumph
proclaimed by a king among men, of his clever¬
ness and brilliance and knowledge, of his victims
and their follies and pitiful cries for mercy and
silly foolish humiliations, of his remorselessness
and relentless pursuit, of his power and subtlety
and superiority to all other conquerors . . and 1
saw, as he triumphed in front of me, that he really
did consider himself a glory and a wonder, that
he did not know what remorse or repentance
might be, that nothing could touch any softness
in him, for there was no softness, nor rouse any
shame for there was no shame ... and 1 lelt tnat
possibly in this at least he was right—that he was
in the completeness of his purpose, in the absence
of all decency, sensitiveness, moral perception,
unique in the world, and so, in his own order,
and q citizen from his own dark planet, a king
am< He touched my arm with his finger You
shall be in on this,’ he said. You should be
useful But mind—once you’re in you re never
out again. I’ll never let you go once I my
tOUC B h ut n ho y : U I wal to U 'L b his m ps r er to know
for at that moment we both hea^w
outside door and from the sound of voices 1 knew
that Buller and Hench had returned.
CHAPTER VI
PENGELLY IN HEAVEN
The other day, after I had begun this narrative,
I found this paragraph in a memoir of William
Morris: ‘7 have found that my memory is, on
many occasions, subject to what seems to be a sort of
“ illumination ” or “ inspirationThus when I
have fixed my mind on one, say, of the incidents in
these chapters, the scene has begun to unfold itself ,
perhaps slowly at first but afterwards rapidly and
clearly. Meditating upon it for a time , I have lifted
my pen and begun to write, then to my surprise the
conversations, long buried or hidden somewhere in
my memory , have come back to me sometimes with the
greatest fullness, word for word, as we say. Nay,
not only the words , but the tones, the pauses and the
gestures of the speaker 7
This is so apt to my present business that I
cannot avoid quoting it; it is true of the whole of
my experience in this narrative but especially true
of the scene, so decisive in the lives of some of us,
that now occurred.
Buller and Hench came in and stood in the
doorway looking at Pengelly. You can under¬
stand that he was a vision of some dramatic
lOI
BOOK I
102 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
importance to them. They had not set eyes on
him since the trial. How many harsh and bitter
experiences had come to them in the intervening
years! Buller was not a man of imagination. He
took things very much as they came to him. He
was no sentimentalist, no enthusiast either—but
when an idea nested in his hair there it remained,
and the idea that he had about Pengelly was
that ‘ he owed him one.’
But with Hench it was different. He saw
Pengelly as the devil himself, tail and all. He
had, I am inclined to think from what afterwards
occurred, a sense that he had almost supernatural
powers of evil and malevolence—gave Pengelly,
in fact, a good deal more than his due.
They stood at the doorway looking at him, and
Pengelly looked at them back again. He had re¬
ceived from me too certain a reassurance of his
security with them to feel any alarm. Instead of
alarm/indeed, he was filled with a triumphant and
overwhelming patronage.
He nodded to them.
‘ Hullo, Buller. Glad to see you. Hullo,
Hench, how are you?’ Then he felt in is
nocket and produced a very flamboyant gold
cisarette-case P from which he extracted a cigarette.
Then he handed it to Buller.
‘ Have one?' he said. Buller was mechamc-
ally about to accept, then something seemed
occur to him. He shook h.s head. _
, ,n " s s£ 3ou 6 h h. .o,.
guardi„g B it. Peogelly — ob„go of .bo pro-
CHAP- VI
PENGELLY IN HEAVEN
103
ceedings; indeed, so entirely was he at home that
he went to the windows and drew the curtains
across.
‘ Cosier,’ he said, ‘ much cosier.’ Then he
sat down in the Spanish arm-chair, crossing his
spindly legs. ‘How have you been?’ he asked
Buller.
‘ All right. . . . How’s yourself? ’
‘ All right,’ said Buller, sucking his imaginary
straw.
‘ Cold, isn’t it? ’ continued Pengelly affably.
‘ Shouldn’t wonder if we have a heap of snow
before the night’s out.’
‘ Shouldn’t wonder,’ said Buller.
There was a little pause, and I remember how
I noticed that Hench, sitting in a chair by the
window, was trembling from head to foot.
* Osmund be long? ’ asked Pengelly.
* Come in any moment,’ said Buller. ‘ Nice
little place he’s got, hasn’t he? *
* a U right,’ said Pengelly. ‘ You should
see a little place I’ve got Maidenhead way. Pretty
as a picture. Five minutes from the river.
Garden and everything.’
‘ I’d like to,’ said Buller.
What’s his idea,’ asked Pengelly, ‘ only
having candles? Bit old-fashioned, isn’t it? ’
Don’t know,’ said Buller. ‘ Prefer electric
light myself.’
Then we all heard the outside door. A moment
afterwards Osmund came in.
How I wish that I had the power to solve
Osmunds secret! Only Dostoevski perhaps
BOOK I
104 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
could do that; he was, beyond question, one of
Dostoevski’s 4 sick men.’ And yet he was not
at all a Dostoevski figure, in no way at all Russian
or semi-Asiatic. He was English—English in
his bodily strength, frankness, honesty, lack of
subtlety. But, like so many Englishmen, he was
always at war with his imagination, feeling that it
was something dangerous, and that he would be
better without it. But he could not be without it.
The catastrophe that ended in his imprisonment
increased it, and the war (as again with so many
Englishmen) gave him a malaise of revolt and
disgust and a passionate desire to do something
that 4 would change everything.’ This revolt
made him a spiritual exile from his own country.
There are no spiritual exiles so unfortunate as the
English because there is no other country possible
for them with whatever pugnacity they may deter¬
mine to acquire one. .
He had really come to feel, I believe, in these
post-war years that England was 4 lost, that she
was going down and down into an abyss, and this
because rogues were everywhere in charge of her and
the land was filled with devils There were very
many men in the country at this time who felt
he did But his sense of it was the more danger-
OUS because there was a fire in his blood, a ferocity
1 • -1 11.. nvPr that silly and so disastrous episode
K 3 * b„h h, ,.d M ,
CHAP. VI
PENGELLY IN HEAVEN
io 5
were doomed, this worked in his brain like a fever.
His loathing of Pengelly had its root, I don’t doubt,
in his loathing of himself.
At any rate I saw quite clearly when he came
into that room, where we were waiting for him, that
he was pitched at that moment to a point of disgust
at the evil both in himself and the world around
him that was not far from madness.
I would put it this way. If, at that instant, out
of the snowy Circus, there had risen before his
window a hero who had called to him to follow him
to some glorious crusade, Osmund would have
been in that second translated into a triumphantly
happy man for whom Pengelly was too low a worm
to be considered.
He needed only some campaign, some knight-
errantry towards the ennobling of the world, with
a chance in it for himself to win some glorious
redemption, and all would have been magnificently
well with him. But alas, all that there was, was
the rosy volume of Quixote , lying by itself on the
bare refectory table.
He was quiet enough when he came in. I
could never see him, as I think I have already said,
without feeling him to be of different clay from the
rest of us. It was not only his height and the
noble carriage of his head, but something spiritual
that set him apart from us. His disgust at his
own failures, perhaps, or his vision of horizons
wider and grander than any that we could see.
When he saw Pengelly he nodded to him.
Sorry I m late,’ he said. He sat down on the
sofa near to me. I fancy that Pengelly’s assurance
IO6 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
was a little dimmed by Osmund’s presence, but if
it was, he had no consciousness of the possibility
of any danger to himself.
He continued to take command of the
situation.
4 Well,’ he said. 4 Here we all are.’ Then,
smirking a little, 4 What about a drink? Not
very hospitable, are you, Osmund? And why not
a cigar while you’re about it? ’
Osmund nodded to Buller, who got up and
went out. We all sat quite silently while he was
away. He returned with whisky, soda-water,
some glasses, a box of cigars. He put them down
on the table. I stretched my hand out.
4 I’ll take that book,’ I said. 4 It will be out of
the way.’ He handed me the Quixote. His legs
a little spread, his face very serious, he poured out
some whisky.
4 Say when,’ he said to Pengelly.
4 Right you are,’ said Pengelly. ‘ Not too
much soda.’ The glass was passed to mrn and
the box of cigars. Each of us in turn was offered
then a drink and each of us refused. Pengelly
looked at us, and that was, I think, the first moment
when it occurred to him that we were not, perhaps,
quite so friendly as we ought to be.
‘ Hullo! ’ he said. ‘ Nobody drinking ?
The others said nothing. I muttered : Have
one later.’
Osmund turned to Pengelly.
4 Mr Pengelly,’ he said, you wrote to
Charlie Buller faying that you would like to meet
him and myself and Hench again and that you had
CHAP. VI
PENGELLY IN HEAVEN 107
something to propose. Here we are—at your
service.’
I knew then one of the many reasons why
Pengelly detested Osmund. Osmund was abso¬
lutely polite, but he conveyed, in spite of himself,
the sense that he was of altogether another order.
It was not conceit, nor pride, nor arrogance, it
was something that was so true that no good
manners could keep it back.
I could see how, at the sound of his voice, Pen-
gelly’s hatred of him, already strong enough, was
strengthened a hundredfold.
‘ All right, Osmund,’ said Pengelly, lighting
his cigar, as though he were king of the world.
‘ All in good time. Not too fast now. I have got
something to suggest—something that might be
useful to you, but there’s no hurry. Here we are,
all friends together, and I must say,’ he added,
finishing his whisky at a gulp and stretching his
glass out, with great familiarity, to Buller for
niore, ‘ that I’m glad there’s no malice felt on
either side. Tell you the truth, I thought there
might have been. I was sorry I had to do as I
did, but you were in for it anyhow. You went
about it like infants in arms—you did really-’
He leaned back puffing at his cigar, while his
little legs, crossed knee over knee, jerked con¬
vulsively in the air.
t If y°u don’t mind,’ said Osmund quietly,
we ve all been very curious to know—why
exactly you did let us in. You owed us no grudge
—or did you ? *
Well, now,’ said Pengelly, evidently enjoying
io8 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
himself, ‘ as to grudge—that’s scarcely the
word. You see, Osmund, you’re a bit above your¬
self at times—you don’t mean it, I dare say, but
I’m sensitive, always was from a kid. What my
father used tosay ever since I was a little nipperwas,
*' Do as you would be done by.” He always said
that was a safe motto, and there’s a lot in it. Let
anyone treat me as man to man, and it’s my hand
in theirs every time, but sort of looking down
your nose—well, that never did anyone any good,
if you get me. Of course I don’t suppose you
knew you were so stuck-up as you were, but there
it was. I’ve got a skin less than most men—my
mother always said so—and I feel things. Things
can hurt me surprisingly, and I don t mind telling
you, Osmund, now that the past is past, that you
hurt me quite a lot the way you cut me short and
didn’t consider I was a human being with feeling
just like anyone else. Of course it s silly to be
sensitive, I 'know, but there it is-.t's the way
one’s made. ... One can’t help oneself . . •
I remembered that we listened to this long
rigmarole which might have continued quite in-
dffinitely had he not buried his face in his glass,
in complete silence.
Then Osmund said: , xT pnr u?
‘ Yes, I see. ... But why Buller and Hench.
They hadn’t done you any harm. , ,
bi , »»* ;r“r,W.
. Wdi,»», ni ,«i
SK S! ri" But Charlie Bailee there-
CHAP. VI
PENGELLY IN HEAVEN
109
I dare say he’s quite forgot something, something
that altered the whole of his existence, as you may
say-’
‘ What’s that? ’ said Buller, leaning forward
and staring at Pengelly.
‘ Throw your mind back a bit, Charlie, it’ll
interest you.’ I could see that Pengelly was now
most thoroughly enjoying himself, his eyes
almost closed, one leg kicking on the other, his
long spidery fingers tip-meeting-tip as though
in prayer. ‘ Don’t you remember a girl at the
pub down there, a girl with red hair, called
Amy?’
‘ I do,’ said Buller.
* -And do you remember that she was quite
sweet on me until you told her lies about me? ’
‘ I don’t remember telling her anything about
you.’
No, you wouldn’t. But you did all the same.
I don t know just what you told her, but she was
shy of me after that—a fine girl, she was, with a
fine figure.* 6
4 ^ s a long time ago,’ murmured Buller.
It is,’ cried Pengelly triumphantly. * So you
may think, but I don’t forget quite so easily. It
1Sn \ nature to * I haven’t got along in this
world by forgetting everything, I can tell you.
No, sir. You were real nasty, Charlie Buller,
a out that girl. It wasn’t as though you wanted
er yourself either. I don’t know what you were
so mean for. Anyway she cost you two years in
gaol, that girl did. It’s a pity you’ve forgotten—
important, she was, as it turned out.’
no ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS book:
Buller said nothing. We none of us said
anything.
‘ And Hench ? ’ at last Osmund asked quietly.
‘Hench?’ Pengelly asked contemptuously.
* Oh, I’d nothing against him. He was in it, so
he went with the rest.’
A cry, a strange, bitter, agonising cry, so
foreign to us that it was as though someone besides
ourselves were in the room, broke on to us.
4 And it was for nothing—for no reason—that
you . . . that you . . . my wife. ...
Even Pengelly seemed to feel something
then.
4 Well,’ he said at last, 4 you were trying to
crack a crib, weren’t you? You deserved what
you got, didn’t you? It would have been the
same even though I hadn’t let them in on you.’
4 And those were all your reasons? ’ Osmund
asked at last. . , .
4 Oh, not at all,’ Pengelly answered, finishing
his second glass. ‘ I had to be in with the police
just then. Had a little affair of my own on hand.
All the weeks I was covering you I was playing
my own game as well. . . .’ He puffed at his
cigar confidently. ‘What I was hoping you d
see and what I’m glad to find you have seen, is
that I hadn’t anything to do with it, so to speak.
It would have been the same thing whether I d
been there or no. And you’ve had your lesson
and taken it well. Now we re all good friends
ag 1 n remembTrnofic < ing t at this point that he was
a little uneasy about Hench. That moments
CHAP. VI
PENGELLY IN HEAVEN
i r i
outcry had disturbed him a trifle. He threw him
furtive, half-questioning glances.
Osmund was sitting up straight on the sofa
now, his legs drawn in, his great back set. I
wondered how Pengelly could be as completely
unconscious of the sinister force behind that quiet
voice as he was.
At last he said: ‘ So much for the past. Now
what of the present ? You suggested that we could
be of use to one another. What’s your plan ? ’
‘ I’m not sure,’ Pengelly answered, looking at
each one of us in turn, ‘ that there are not too many
in on this. I’ve had a little talk with our friend
here,’ nodding at me, ‘ and he seems to want to
share in the fun—but about Mr. Hench now. . . .’
He paused, suddenly shooting his bony fore¬
head forward in Hench’s direction.
Fun? said Osmund. ‘ We’ve got to know
what kind of fun it is before we come in with you.
That’s quite fair, isn’t it? ’
Have you? ’ said Pengelly, smiling in what
, have considered a very sly manner.
That’s just the question.’
Osmund, Buller and Hench all made a move-
ment together as though they were closing in.
Ihen Buller said:
How do you mean—the question? You
asked us to meet you here, didn’t you? *
That’s right,’ said Pengelly. ’ But I’d like
to know a bit more about all of you first. You
see, it s quite a time since we met. I know you’re
all pretty well on your uppers. I’ve found that
out at any rate.’
112 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS book:
No one said anything.
Pengelly began to be a little irritated.
‘ Well, now, aren’t you? There’s Osmund here
—him and his wife. This is a fine fresh flat, I’ll
allow, but how much longer is he going to be
able to stay here? What about that last job you
had, Osmund—Secretary to Edward Hoskins,
Esq., wasn’t it? Someone suddenly peached on
you, didn’t he, told Mr. Hoskins a few things?
And you, Charlie Buller—things haven’t been
quite so dandy with you lately, have they? ’
Osmund spoke.
4 We don’t want this to last for ever. If you
have a plan to put in front of us let’s have it—
otherwise-’
4 Yes—otherwise? ’ said Pengelly.
4 Otherwise—we are only wasting time.
4 Not at all,’ said Pengelly. 4 You’ve got it all
wrong. What I want you fellows to realise is that
I can do what I like with you—so to speak. I can
stop your settling in any place where you re
comfortable—if I want to. Not that 1 bear you
any sort of malice. I’m not one to bear malice.
Not at all. But I wouldn’t have you think, the
four of you, that you do me a favour if you come
in to my little scheme. Quite the contrary. 1 m
doing the favour, you understand/
Osmund jumped up. For an instant I was in
doubt as to what he would do. His movement
was so sudden, his stature so great when he got
to his feet that Pengelly shrank back into his chair
Ind eed his hand, then covered his awkwardness
with a nervous laugh. Osmund had gone to the
CHAP. VI
PENGELLY IN HEAVEN
”3
window. With a sharp tearing sound he jerked
back the curtains. We could see now beyond the
windows the shadowed glow of the lighted sky,
and faintly, as though jerked there by a drunken
hand, the reflection from a leaping sky-sign marked
the wall above the fireplace.
Osmund turned from looking out, and stood
with his back to the window, facing the room.
4 All right,’ he said quietly. 4 You are doing
us a favour. We realise your generosity. We are
broken and ruined—at your feet, Pengelly. What
will you do with us? *
Pengelly’s eyes sparkled.
‘ Now you’re kidding me. You don’t truly
feel like that. All the same I take it that you’re
pretty desperate, all of you, and ready to come in
on any sensible scheme—that is, if it’s reallv
sensible.* J
* s reall y sensible,’ repeated Osmund.
I his is sensible, all right,’ said Pengelly,
triumphantly. He sunk his voice and leaned for¬
ward in confidence towards us. 4 The fact is that
there are a lot of folk in this world who’ve funny
habits or are fond of someone they shouldn’t be, or
nave been in a mess sometime and want to forget
!,* X ou 5 an rec ognise that yourselves, having had
the experience you have. . .
of ( As r he s P° ke } could see the glittering expanse
• j 'rcos, and, staring from the caves on every
Mx? t, i., drcds of e y es > furr y with anxious fear.)
Slin h* 1 sa y is that if a ™n’s made a
Shp he oughtn’t to grumble if he has to pay for it.
Why, you wouldn’t believe the dirty things men
11 4 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
do and the nasty ways they have. Why should
they get off scot-free and the rest of us suffer?
Here are you three, for instance—made one little
mistake and had two years in gaol for it. Don’t
you feel a bit sore at all these folk dancing around,
wine, women, and song and all the rest of it, and
never a penny the worse for it? That’s where I
come in,’ he added.
4 That’s where you come in,’ Osmund repeated.
4 Yes, and where you’ll come in too, if you
join us, Osmund. You see ’ (he became with every
word more confidential, more sure of himself and
of us), ‘ what I’m in need of is gentlemen. Real
pukker gentlemen that look right and talk right
and eat their food right and make love to women
right. Now you’re a gentleman, Osmund, and so’s
Gunn. I can’t tell you what an advantage a
gentleman is at this game, especially with women.
I’d give you quite a decent share of the profits, as
long as you played straight with me—and there
are some profits, I can tell you.
Buller sucked straws; Hench half rose as
though he would speak, then sat down again.
Osmund nodded his head.
‘ I understand/ he said. What s commonly
known as blackmail. . ,
Pengelly shrugged his bony shoulders.
4 That’s a silly word to my thinking. After a ,
what isn’t blackmail when you come to think ot it.
Who is there isn’t for ever bribing his fnend to
keep quiet about him, if you understand what I
^ ? Fvervbodv’s got a secret somewhere, and
if his friends didn’t look after him where’d he be?
chap, vi PENGELLY IN HEAVEN 115
I .tell you, Osmund, this is the grandest game in
the universe. There isn’t anything else to touch
it for fun and excitement. You never know what
you’re up against, and you should see the way
folks squeal. Why, I’ve got a woman now-’
He stopped. ‘ No, that’s telling. But you four
come in with me and you’ll have the time of your
lives. I’ll do the directing. I’ve got quite a
bunch under me as it is, and I make it worth
their while too. . . . What do you say? ’
Buller stretched his legs and arms and yawned.
‘ It sounds a good enough scheme,’ he said—‘ for
the right kind of man.’
* Of course,’ said Pengelly, looking round on
us rather as a trainer looks round on his animals,
* you’d have to do what you’re told, you know.’
It was then that, looking round and catching
sight of Osmund’s face, I suddenly became myself
frightened. An immense disgust, contempt and,
oddly mixed with it, a sort of pity rose in me
toward Pengelly.
I believed him. I know now that there had
been no original plan in their minds about him.
They had pictured him, perhaps, as at last at their
mercy, and so, in very utter contempt of him, they
would have told him so. But what they had never
pictured was this arrogance and patronage, this
confident proposal to them of the vilest schemes
open to mankind. It was, I think, his certain belief
that we would agree to his foul purposes that drove
us to the climax. For we were driven; driven if
you like by other things than Pengelly, driven
by the ivory pictures of the secretaire, the silver
ii6 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
candlesticks, by the gleaming light beyond the
window-panes.
But it happened that I looked up and caught
the moment when Osmund passed from calm to
tempest. His rages had always been like that,
descendingon him as swiftlyas a squall falling from
the hills across a lake. He was the only human
being I have ever known who seemed to be
inhabited by a devil at such times—not an evil
devil, nothing mean or vile, but a spirit of tempest,
ready to be gone as swiftly as he came.
I wondered that Pengelly felt nothing of the
change. For a moment he did not. He went on
as confidently as before.
‘ It’s a paying game—there’s no doubt about
that. It’s marvellous how they pay up when
you’ve got them by the throat. It’s very seldom
they cut up rough, and if they do there s lots of
ways of dealing with them.
‘ Of course you’d want a bit of training, but I
expect it would come natural enough after a time.
Some take to it like second nature. I wouldnt
wonder if you did, Gunn! I bet you’d be one of the
smartest-’ ..
He broke off. He was aware of our silence.
He recognised that it was different from our
earlier attitude. Our eyes were on him too. He
was suddenly suspicious that perhaps he had gone
too far. Those whiskies had unsealed his tongue
too readily. He drew back into his chair, and 1
noticed that that convention of 1 melodrama?;u e
this instance true; he was gathered together like
an animal ready to spring.
chap, vi PENGELLY IN HEAVEN 117
Then Osmund’s voice, deep, shaking with
emotion, broke our silence.
‘ You filthy little swine! ’ I heard Hench draw
a deep sigh. But Pengelly was quick. He knew
instantly that our whole attitude had been bluff,
that he was in the presence of his enemies, and
that he had been a fool to give himself away.
Lord! How he hated us then! He half
rose, resting his thin hands on the arms of the
chair.
‘ So that’s your game, is it? ’ he said. ‘ You’ve
tried to trick me, have you? Well, you’ve bitten
off more than you can chew, the lot of you. I
wasn t such a fool as to come here unprotected,
and don’t you think it. If anything happens to
me you re in for it—the lot of you. I should have
thought you’d had enough of gaol-’
It’s possible,’ said Osmund, ‘ that we don’t
care what the consequences are.’ Then he came
forward a little and stood staring at Pengelly as
though he were delivering judgement on him.
Understand us, Pengelly, this isn’t any busi¬
ness of revenge. You were right in that. We
let ourselves into a dirty business, and were
punished for it—-justly punished, I dare say. Our
point is quite different. You’re a nuisance to
society, vile, foul. . . . There’s no goodness in you
anywhere. You are the cause of misery and
wretchedness to everyone you touch. You’ve
proved it again and again by your own words.
nere s nothing to be said for you—absolutely
nothing at all. That’s our case. We’ve heard
you and we’ve condemned you.*
BOOK I
118 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
Pengelly’s eyes went straight for the door.
He knew his danger by now.
‘ Oh, shut your mouth-! * he screamed and
leapt from his chair across the floor. Then things
happened quickly. Buller was in front of the
door, but before Pengelly got to him Osmund was
on to him. I saw Osmund rise to his height and
spread his shoulders. He had his hands about
Pengelly’s throat. Pengelly kicked. A chair
fell. Then Osmund had him hanging in air, his
thin spidery legs, his long bony arms struggling.
Osmund’s huge hands pressed. There came from
Pengelly throttled, broken, little screams like a
rabbit’s. Once he seemed to have his head free,
and he let out a yell of terror, sheer naked animal
terror. . ,
Then Osmund swung him like a dummy, and
brought him down with a thud on the table.
There was a little moan, a convulsive kick of the
^Buller murmured: ‘ My God, you’ve killed
him *
From his chair Hench began to whimper like a
child.
CHAPTER VII
EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES OF A CORPSE
From an infinite distance came the sound of
Hench’s whimpering. It went on and on, some¬
thing between a sniffle and a strangled breath.
Otherwise the silence in the room was profound,
and it seemed endless.
The body was crumpled in a heap on the floor;
a leg crooked back had its trouser hitched up, and
pale mottled skin showed above a shabby sock.
The head hung forward on to the breast.
At last Osmund bent down, picked up the
body and laid it down on the sofa, the face away
from us, but, as he moved it, I caught a glimpse of
the pale untidy face, the tongue protruding, and it
was in that moment that I had my conviction,
which the evening was to strengthen; namely, that
Pengelly wasn t there, that he had escaped us at
the instant when Osmund banged his head on the
table, that he was at this minute jeering at us
somewhere in the background. If I seem to
show a certain levity or casualness towards this
corpse you must remember that I had this con¬
viction. I recollect also that I had a mingled
sense of congratulation and pity towards the
120 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
corpse, congratulation because it had at last escaped
from the odiousness of Pengelly’s personality, pity
because it was now so helpless.
Osmund bent down and felt beneath the body’s
waistcoat. Then he straightened himself.
Yes, he’s gone,’ he said.
Charlie Buller, who seemed in no kind of way
discomposed, nodded his head.
‘ And a damned good thing too, filthy swine!
. . . And what are we going to do with it? ’
Osmund stood there, his legs spread, looking
out through the window. He talked softly as
though to himself.
* I didn’t mean to. It was my temper again.
His taking it for granted that we were like him¬
self. That’s the mistake he always made. Our
mistake too—we were partly responsible. . . .
My damnable temper.’
Buller broke in. ‘ All right. Never mind
whose fault it was. We’re all in it now, and
what we’ve got to decide is what we’re going to
do with it. We can’t leave it here all night.’
Nobody said anything. . He went on: ‘Some¬
body may come after him. It isn t likely he d
trust himself into our hands without warning one
of his pals. We may have got rid of him, but we
aren’t rid of his gang.
Then Hench broke in. He jumped up from
his chair and began to wave his hands in an absurd
manner. ‘ You aren't rid of him ! You aren t
rid of him! ’ he cried out in his shrill, piping voice.
■ You don’t get rid of him by killing him. \ ou ve
done the one thing that'll never r,d us of him.
chap, vir ADVENTURES OF A CORPSE 121
Don’t you see? Oh, my God, don’t you see? . . .
What I mean to say is he isn’t dead at all and
never will be now. Never, never!’
He was going to scream or shout or do some¬
thing equally silly, so I stepped in then, went over
to him, caught his fat shoulders, forced him down
into his chair.
Took here, Hench—if you don’t behave
decently we 11 have to knock you on the head just
to keep you quiet. We’re not going to have the
whole of the Circus in here.’ Then I told Buller
to give him a stiff whisky, which he did. Hench
drank it, then turned his face from us all, hiding
it m his arms, one shudder passing over his body
after another. 7
I rernember then that I became as urgent as
Charlie Buller that something must be done im-
mechatdy I couldn’t bear to see the thing lying
.here, as though it were shamming sleep, with its
rouser std 1 hitched up and the bare flesh show¬
ing. The whole room seemed stained and beastly
so long as that crumpled thing lay there, and I felt
the bndv° Se a m ^ rderer ha * ^lt, that if only
the b° d y were removed out of sight, all would be
Osmund s immobility irritated me T-j- ; «.
stood there, looking Zt of the window Ct
the arm! ^ * °' Vn thou g hts - 1 shook him by
here ’ ° smu " d > Buller’s right. We’ve
got to do something about this. Either you can
telephone to the police and tell them all about it
or we must put this awaysomewhere-and quickly ’
122 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
Buller broke in.
‘ Telephone the police? Hang by the neck
for that swine? No, thank you. I can deal with
it. I’ve got the car parked round the corner.
I’ll take it in the car to the river behind Dirk’s.
They won’t find the body for two days after that
and when they do they won’t recognise it.’
Somehow the thought of the outside world
made me shiver. I didn’t know who or what
Dirk’s might be, but I had stepped suddenly into
the unreal pantomime of detective novels where
police officers and newspaper men and dope fiends
jostle one another, puppet-fashion, on a mathe¬
matical staircase constructed of algebraical for¬
mulae. #
4 How are you going to get it to the car this
time of day with everybody about? ’ I asked.
‘ Someone will have to help me. The stairs
are dark. We’ll take him down between us as
though he were tight. Once it’s in the car I can
manage alone.’
Osmund nodded his head.
‘ Yes, if you like. It won’t make any differ¬
ence in the end. Not for me, anyway. I m
caught all right.’ Then added to himself in a
sort of whisper, ‘ Yes, he’s caught me
Then he threw up his head and was quite
suddenly practical. ‘ But I'm not going to have
any of you spoiling your lives for my mess. It s
my ‘ a £t you wont "aWBuller abruptly. ‘ Not
this bit of it, anyway. With your height and
everything you’d attract attention at once. Gunn
chap.vii ADVENTURES OF A CORPSE 123
and I will manage this. There’s no difficulty.
Shove his hat over his eyes, put his waterproof on
him. There’s no risk at all.’
He stopped abruptly and drew his breath in.
He had heard a sound. We all had. The open¬
ing of the outer door.
The funny thing then was that, at that moment,
when we all of us were stiffened by the sound into
immobility (even Hench ceased his shudder), the
corpse rolled over on to its back, one leg tumbling
off the sofa, exactly as though it had heard the
opening door. There it lay, eyes staring, tongue
hanging out, the head indecently crooked. We
waited. There were steps in the outer hall.
Osmund looked at me.
* Helen! ’ he said. ‘ She is the only one who
has a key.’
I went as though he had ordered me. Look¬
ing back now, I think that the truth was that I
instantly felt that I was the only person in the
whole world to come in between her and Pen-
gelly s body. She, at least, must be kept away
from this. . . .
So I went straight out of the room into the
little hall. Here there was electric light (Os¬
mund’s aesthetic prejudices didn’t extend appa¬
rently to coat-racks and umbrella-stands) and just
inside the door Helen was standing, staring in
ront of her and taking off her gloves. It is all
very well to reduce everything to chemical for-
mulae but you are not going to tell me that the
look that Helen and I gave one another at that
moment, a look so much more searching, involving
BOOK X
124 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
so much more of recognition of the eternal bond
between us than any physical attraction, had
anything chemical about it.
In that awful moment, when I was sick in the
stomach and blind in the eyes from the reaction
from all that had just occurred, I saw Helen with
more clarity and justice, saw the beauty of her
spirit and the generous nobility of her heart more
vividly than I had ever done before, even in my
most romantic dreams of her (and I had had many).
We always afterwards admitted that it was that
glance of recognition in the little hall that pledged
us to one another.
All that she said was: ‘ Oh, Dick . . . I’m so
glad you’re still here. I hoped you would be.’
There was something ironical in her greet¬
ings even with those she loved the most, irony, if
you understand, turned towards herself, an im¬
plication that she always found life, and her place
in it, a little absurd.
‘ What’s brought you back? Was the dinner
off? ’ (I can’t tell you how unexpected I found
the absence of all noise in that other room to be.
My ears, all this time, were straining for every
sound.)
‘ Well . . She looked at me, smiling. I
smiled back. ‘ My friend’s young man turned
up—unexpectedly, of course. They wanted me
to stay, but I’m much too tactful. They wanted
the three of us to go out to a restaurant. I detest
restaurants. Then—I hadn’t seen you for so
] on g—you’re so elusive, you know, Dick. J
might never have set eyes on you again. 1 had
chap, vir ADVENTURES OF A CORPSE 125
expected that you and John would have gone out
to dine somewhere. I thought I’d make myself
a cup of tea here and wait—in case he brought you
back.’
All the time that she was talking, she was
listening. I realised that the silence was forcing
itself upon her. She took off her hat, looked at
herself in the glass, patted her hair, then moved
forward a little. But I didn’t stir.
Well—where is John? Why haven’t you
gone out? It’s a quarter past eight.*
‘ Some friends have come,’ I said. 4 They’ve
kept him.’
‘ Friends? . . . Who? ’
Charlie Buller. Mr. Hench.’
She nodded.
I knew he wanted me out of the way. I’m
not such a fool. . . She stopped suddenly. We
i?mi h m rd it ~ Hench cr ying something out,
shrilly, hke a child’s cry. b
Dick what’s the matter? Something’s been
going on? What is it? ’
} e A 0 Z hCV ? been T ? bit of a row,’ I acknow-
W*. , That was Hench. Ever since his wife
died he s been queer. I never saw such a change
have V Buller and ° smu nd
got him in hand all right.’
Her voice softened. ‘Poor Hench! I’m
mixer!" f ° r - b T ‘ 3 h . an f ° r 3ny ° f them ‘ Are
mixed up m this? ’ ^
< Not a bit; I came quite by chance.’
for *nV n and T te , n J ohn that y° u ’re taking me out
n hour. It s such ages since we’ve met. I
126 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
have a thousand things to ask you; John won’t
mind. He can join us later.’
She smiled. Her eyes were bright with some¬
thing that I did not dare to connect as yet with
myself. She turned once more to the bedroom,
then drew back. She put her hand out to steady
herself on the'door-handle and whispered:
‘ Pengelly! ’
I followed her gaze and saw that she was staring
at a hat and a waterproof hanging on the rack.
Together they were unmistakable. I myself,
after all these years, would have recognised them
anywhere. There were, I don’t doubt, hundreds of
other poor mortals in this city to whom that hat
and waterproof were insignia of shame and torture.
I nodded.
‘ Yes, he’s been here. He’s gone.’
‘ He’s gone? . . . Why are you hiding some¬
thing? Something’s happened? I don’t believe
he’s gone—the vile . .
She was interrupted because the door opened
and Osmund came out.
She went straight up to him and, looking him
in the face, said: _ , , ....
4 What’s been going on? Dick s hiding some¬
thing. Pengelly’s been here. What about?
Osmund nodded his head.
‘ Yes, he’s been here—but he’s gone.’
4 i don’t believe it. He’s still here. His hat
and coat are there.’
She pushed past him and went into the room.
She stopped just inside the door. One of the
candles was flickering and rivalled in its jumping
chap, vn ADVENTURES OF A CORPSE 127
shadows the reflections of the sky-signs on the
wall. Pengelly was lying, straightened out on
the sofa, a handkerchief over his face.
‘ He’s dead,’ she said.
‘ Yes,’ said Osmund. ‘ I killed him.’
She swayed ever so little, put her hand for a
moment in front of her eyes, and gave her husband
the strangest look. It was a look of terror. She
turned and glanced at all of us; then she left the
room without another word. Osmund followed
her, closing the door behind him.
Buller shook his head. ‘ What a shame! ’ he
said. ‘What a damned shame! Couldn’t you
have stopped her coming? It’s worse now. It
was bad enough, but now it’s worse.’
He looked round at Hench and saw that he
was of no use at all. He was sitting staring in
front of him, his hands hanging.
Then he appealed to me.
Look here, Gunn, you’re the only one who’s
any good. It s bad luck on you; you had nothing
to do with this. You oughtn’t to have been in
this at all. We must get it away. Osmund’s
gone a bit queer, Hench is no good. We’ve eot
to get busy.’ &
At that moment a clock tinkled the quarter-
past somewhere.
Quarter-past eight. Will you help me? ’
At his _ direct appeal I found that I had
been thinking only of Helen, seeing her and
Osmund outside that door, wanting to be with
her, longing. ...
But at the urgency of his voice I swung right
128 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK I
round. I, as it were, jerked myself, my brain,
my consciousness, my determination into another
position.
‘ Yes,’ I said, ‘ I’ll help you/
‘ There’s only one thing to do. We’ve got to
get it into the car. It isn’t very pleasant, but we
must manage it. Wait—I’ll go out and get his
hat and coat.’
He opened the door, peered out, then went,
closing the door behind him.
I had been standing near the window while he
was speaking to me, and the moment he was gone
Hench sprang up and laid his trembling hand
on me. ,
‘ Don’t go,’ he said. ‘ Don’t go, Gunn. It s
nothing to do with you. And we can’t get rid
of him that way. Don’t you see—he’s outside,
waiting on the staircase. That isn’t him there.
We must tell everybody. That’s the only way to
get clear.’
I saw that he was on the edge of the wildest
hysteria. I felt an odd tenderness for him; in
fact at that moment I felt an extraordinary ten¬
derness and compassion for the whole world, as
though all human beings had shared in this deed,
as though all human fates had been altered by it.
I put my arm round him.
4 Wait a minute, Hench. Take this calmly.
Pull yourself up a bit. Remember this. ? Pen-
gelly was the dirtiest, rottenest fellow there s ever
been There’s never been anyone worse, tie
was a blackmailer, and there’s nothing rottener
7 han that-nothing. He’s made hundreds of
CHAP. VII ADVENTURES OF A CORPSE 129
men and women wretched, frightening them,
bullying them. He had no remorse, no mercy.
He wanted to make us as bad as himself. And he
was responsible for your wife’s death.’
He broke in.
‘ But she wouldn’t have wanted to kill him.
She didn’t wish anyone harm. However bad he
was, she wouldn’t have hurt him. And we haven’t
killed him. He’s more alive than ever he was.
He’ll be with us always now. Oh, God, God . . .
if only I hadn’t come. . . .’
Buller came in, carrying the hat and coat.
At the sight of them I was suddenly practical,
resolved.
‘ Sorry I was so long,’ Buller whispered (we
were all speaking in whispers). ‘ I went out into
the passage to see if anyone was there. It’s all
clear.’
‘ Is Osmund there? ’ I asked.
‘ No. They’ve gone into the bedroom. You
see, I want us to get away before he’s back.
Osmund is so damned funny. You never know
what he’ll do—impulsive. . . . Here—catch his
arm while I slip the coat on.’
I put my arm round the body’s waist, and it
leaned its lolling head against my chest as though
it loved me. I raised the hand, and it was warm
to my touch. We slipped the waterproof on and
pushed the hat down on to the head.
As we raised the body away from the sofa I
had a brief attack of nausea. Everything in the
room began to swim round me, the silver candle¬
sticks were trebled and the windows gaped like
K
BOOK I
130 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
pools of water. It passed. I was quite steady.
Buller held the body firmly round the waist. I
clutched one arm. It made quite a passable
figure between us, very like a drunken man, the
head sunk, the feet dragging, the shoes tapping
on the floor.
There was no sign of Osmund and Helen—
no sign or sound of anyone or anything. Then,
as I opened the flat-door with my spare hand, I
saw that someone had at that same moment
switched on the staircase light from below. It
was too late to turn back. Even as we came out,
the door closing behind us, I saw a large, stout,
red-faced woman mounting the stairs towards us.
She paused on the top step, panting for breath.
She was one of those strange women, not, I sup¬
pose, peculiar to our times, who, well over forty
in age, nevertheless dress like girls of twenty.
She had a little black shining hat pulled tightly
over her shingled hair, but she was wearing even¬
ing dress, her shoulders covered with a very gaily
coloured Spanish shawl; her skirts were extremely
short and her legs in black silk stockings immense.
Buller and I had both instinctively moved for¬
ward a little to cover our burden. She was at
first occupied with the recovery of her breath, and
saw nothing at all. Then realising us, she gasped:
‘ Major Escott? ’
(So vividly did this awful moment drive that
name into me that, when only a few weeks ago I
encountered the name in a newspaper, I could not
for a minute or two read the paragraph that
followed.)
CHAP. VII ADVENTURES OF A CORPSE 131
‘ I beg your pardon? ’ asked Buller.
‘ Oh no—it’s all right.' (Her hand was
against her panting breast.) ‘ I saw you come
out of that door. I thought it might be Major
Escott’s. He’s in this building somewhere.’
* Higher up, madam,’ said Buller.
‘ Oh, thank you.’ She moved on to the foot
of the next staircase. Then she turned. Her
silly, round, rather sheepish eyes were like saucers.
She had one of the stupidest faces possible to
woman and a very coquettish manner.
‘ You’re sure it’s higher up? ’ she said. ‘ Be¬
cause I thought it was number three. . . .’ Then
she saw the lolling figure between us. She gave
a little gasp.
‘ Oh! ... is your friend ill? ’
Buller smiled grimly. ‘ We have been cele¬
brating. . . .*
Oh yes. . . .* She hesitated. ‘ Because I
have my car. The chauffeur could fetch a
doctor. . ,
. You are very kind,’ Buller answered. ‘ It
is nothing—a little fresh air. . . .’
She looked again. I had an agonising sense
that she suspected something; my own knees
went, and the body hanging on my arm weighed
suddenly a ton.
Oh, if that’s all-’ She gave us another
look and went up, disappearing round the corner.
We waited until her steps died away. I leant back
against the door of Osmund’s flat.
T a * , m son 7 > duller—I’m going to be sick.’
indeed the floor and the stairs were heaving and
132 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS BOOK I
dancing; the thin glass globe of the electric light
swelled and retracted.
Buller was disgusted. He jerked at the body.
‘ Here, give me the thing. I thought you were
up to this. Go back and be sick in the flat. I’ll
manage it alone.’
I was ashamed. I shook my head.
4 No, I’m all right.’
4 Remember he was a beast,’ Buller went on
rapidly. 4 The rankest ever. If anyone de¬
served a knock on the head. . . .’
The words with which I had tried to strengthen
Hench ; and at the thought of Hench and his
hysteria, I pulled myself together.
4 Come on,’ I said, and we moved forward.
As we moved down that flight of stairs I be¬
came convinced that Pengelly was still alive.
After all, it might be so. No one had made any
very careful examination.
It seemed to me that he was grinning under
his hat, but it was especially the rolling of the head
that had a horrible life in it. I felt that at all cost
I must stop and steady that head with my hand.
My own fingers slipped and came into contact
with those fingers that were still warm.
4 Buller, wait. . . We were half-way down
that section of the staircase. 4 I don’t think he s
dead ... the way his head rolls. • • ;
‘ He’s dead,’ said Charlie,— 4 Stone, and went
on It seemed to me that those fingers were
trying to catch mine, and that roused in me a
nasty vindictiveness. My hand tightened on the
arm, and it was as though I said: If you are
chap, vii ADVENTURES OF A CORPSE 133
grinning, there’s nothing to grin about. If you
play any tricks I’ll finish you off properly.’ The
heels of the shoes tap-tapped at every step.
On the next landing there was nobody. We
moved forward. There was only one more
flight of stairs, and we were on the ground floor.
We passed the barber’s door, now dark and dead!
What months ago that visit to that barber seemed!
There was a very dim light here and no sound at
all. We might have been stepping down into a
well without bottom.
Half-way down this last flight Buller paused.
‘ Now it’s going to be a bit difficult,’ he whis¬
pered. 4 This is the only risky bit, but there’s
nothing else for it. The car’s parked round the
corner. I’ve got to fetch it and you’ve got to
wait here. It’s all right. We’ll stick it down in
this corner—you stand over it. I’ll only be a
minute or two, but when I’ve got the car we can’t
leave it outside more than a moment. It’s almost
certain no one will come, and if they do they won’t
notice anything.’
I .had a wild impulse of refusal. To wait alone
in this dark corner, alone with Pengelly. . . . But
there was something about Buller, a courage, an
indifference to all emotionalism, that shamed me.
He added: ‘ After all, there were lots of worse
things in the war. . . .’
He took the body in his arms, propped it up
0,1 j j j ^ ast Ste P * n the co^er against the wall,
nodded to me, and was gone. I stood there, the
nausea still with me.
Impossible now not to believe that Pengelly
i 3 4 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booki
was alive! He sat there, his head forward,
huddled, his legs jutting out. I had to push his
legs back, and, as I did so, one of his hands, colder
surely than a moment ago, touched mine. When
did rigor mortis set in? The time of it differed,
didn’t it? In any case not yet for a while. But
why think of that when he was alive? At any
moment he might lean forward and clutch me
round the knees. My own knees were trem¬
bling. It wouldn’t be very difficult to pull me
down and then, with those cold hands, to strangle
me. . . . Every kind of wild idea flew to my
brain, and every sound in the world began to be
audible to me. . . . The whole building stirred
with a life of its own, a life altogether inde¬
pendent of the human beings who inhabited it.
A small inquisitive wind came creeping down the
stairs wondering what I had got there. In the
corner beside me were a broom and a bucket, and
they seemed also to share the same inquisitive¬
ness. But there were more positive sounds than
these. A vibration like a silly malicious gigg 1e
seemed to tremble through the building, dhis
was almost out of earshot, but not quite. It 1
listened with all my attention, I caught the quiver
of it just as though someone were laughing at me
behind the door. Then, at constant intervals, the
whole place moved (possibly certain vibrations ot
the traffic shook it), but it was a movement so like
the other sounds of derision and menace, “ houg
the Diace knew that I was a fool and hated me
for S Presence and for the thing that I had
with me.
chap.vii ADVENTURES OF A CORPSE 135
Somewhere a door blew to, and this puzzled me
because it must be some inside door, and yet it
was close to my ear and more sharply menacing
than any other sound.
Soon, however, all my sensations rolled into
one, my consciousness of the cold. I had neither
hat nor coat with me. I was (you will re¬
member) dirty and unshaven. Every draught
in the world was circling about me, blowing round
my forehead, creeping up my legs, stroking my
arms.
Cold and hunger, as everyone has at some time
experienced, have a personal force. When they
are felt intensely enough they become individuals
and wear, for the person who is confronted by
them, physical aspects.
So now it seemed to me that the cold came
down from the stairs, and crept in from under the
street door, and began to flap a wet freezing
cloak about my face. I was tired, overstrung,
and it was not long before my imagination con¬
ceived for me that Pengelly also felt the cold and
crept closer to me for warmth, but that he was
colder than any cold and that I was conscious of
ms stiff naked body beneath his thin clothes.
Oh yes, those minutes at the foot of that
staircase were of themselves extremely uncom¬
fortable for me, but now something was to happen
which made them infinitely worse.
r 7 he ***** do ° r was P ushed open—the noise
of the outside traffic was suddenly a roar, the door
was closed again, and a little man in evening dress
was facing me. The light here was very dim.
BOOK I
136 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
and he would not have seen me at all had he not
held the door open for a moment and let the out¬
side glare in upon me.
But he did see me, and he stopped with a gasp.
He stood swaying a little on his feet, and when
he spoke I realised that he was slightly tipsy.
4 Hullo,’ he said. ‘ Who’s there? ’
I must have been frightening standing there,
stiff and straight in the shadow against the wall.
4 It’s all right,’ I answered. ‘ I’m waiting for
a friend.’ .
He was reassured, I suppose, by my voice, and
he took it at once for granted that I was waiting
for a woman. , ^
4 All right,’ he said; ‘won t spoil sport. tie
swayed forward so that he touched me. 4 Damned
dark here.* , T • 1
4 There’s a light on the next landing, I said.
4 Right O! ’ I could see his face, and it was
very young and very weak. 4 Hope I 11 get up
there all right. Been drinking a bit. Too many
cc, cktads.’ 1 For t h e life of me I could not
keep my teeth from chattering. It was then, I
think that it struck him that there was something
unusual about my immobility. He peered a
little dOd s ^ ot you ’ ve chosen. No business of
mine.
rlidn’t reply. I was at this moment so badly
ove wtugh tVd nervously alarmed that for tup-
penceT Jould have caught h.m by the scruff of
his neck and thrown him up the stairs.
chap.vii ADVENTURES OF A CORPSE 137
might return at any moment. What if the young
fool were still here and insisted on remaining.
‘ Well/ he repeated. ‘ No business of mine.
Late already. Major Escott’s flat. Number
three. Next floor, isn’t it? ’
‘ Yes,’ I answered sharply, having a wild
hysterical desire to laugh. Suppose this ass
climbed up and rang the bell of Osmund’s flat
and in his drunken humour insisted that it was
the one he wanted! Oh well, I had the body
here—that was one comfort.
But it was no comfort at all, for, with another
lurch, he peered into the dusk and saw the
huddled shadow at my feet.
* Hul-lol ’ he whistled. ‘ What have you got
there? ’ 7 6
That’s what I’m waiting for,’ I answered
quickly.. ‘ If you want to know, it’s a pal of mine
drunk himself silly. Someone’s gone to fetch his
c ar ~it’s parked round the corner—we’ll put him
into it and take him home.’
My word\ ’ The young ass was deeply in¬
terested. And I thought it was a girl you were
waiting for. By Jove, he does look bad! Too
many cocktails, that’s what I’ve been having—
and before the party’s even started. We’re going
to make a night of it. It’s Escott’s birthday—
lots of people coming in later on, but we re
dining . .
He broke off. Something seemed to tell him
that Pengelly’s immobility was rather remarkable.
He is bad. Gone off in a sort of stupor or
something.* r
138 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS BOOK I
My nerves were at breaking point.
‘ He’ll be all right,’ I snapped out, ‘ once we
get him home.’
Then the most terrible thing happened. He
fumbled in his pocket, produced a cigarette-case
and a lighter. He took out a cigarette, then
there was a flare of light. He looked over the
little flame—straight into Pengelly’s face. The
head had rolled back, the hat tumbled sideways,
the face with staring eyes, the tip of the tongue
jutting out between the teeth, the cheeks a dead
yellow—this was what the young man saw. The
light went out. The cigarette dropped to the
ground.
* My God! ’ he whispered. ‘ He’s dead! ’
Had he, in that moment of illumination, looked
at my face? I didn’t know.
I moved forward. He turned, as though he
thought I was going to strike him, up the staircase.
‘ Rot! ’ I said. ‘ He’s only dead drunk. He
fell and struck his head. He’ll be as right as
anything in the morning.’
But the young man was gone. I was alone
once more. ^ , ,
Only for a moment. The door opened, and,
to my intense relief, this time it was Buller.
Without a word we had Pengelly between us,
had passed into the brilliant light of the street,
had placed Pengelly in the dark corner of the back
seat, the head once more lowered, the hat once
more obscuring the face.
No one noticed us. The crowd was no
thick, and to my eyes and ears, after that awful
chap, vii ADVENTURES OF A CORPSE 139
ten minutes, seemed to have the vitality and colour
of a flaming, shouting miracle.
I had one glimpse of Buller as, his face sternly
set, his thick, strong bullet head stiff with courage
and resolve, he stared to see that his path was
clear.
Then the car moved forward, and I was alone.
BOOK II
* 4 *
CHAPTER VIII
SHADOW PURSUING
I did not at once realise that I was at last alone.
It seemed to me that all of them—Buller, Osmund,
Hench, Helen—were yet at my side as I pushed
into the flaming, icy stream. For that, I remem¬
ber, was how it just seemed to me—to be flaming
with light and brilliant with cold. I was without
hat or coat—I was terrified. I must confess to
that now, for this was the first moment (although
it was not to be the last) during this evening when
u W ^ S c l ua ^* n S> panic-driven with terror. All
that I wanted at that particular instant was to flee,
to hide myself, to bury myself, to escape from
every kind of contact. It was not until later that
the question of Helen, of my return to the flat, of
my involving myself once more in the whole ad¬
venture, began to persecute me. I had in that
tirst moment no thought at all of Helen. I
thought only of myself.
And here, if you will forgive me for an instant,
I must explain that I had, for months before this
been a driven fugitive. No one who has not
experienced it can have any true notion of what it
is to be day after day, week after week, month
M3
ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
144 - -
after month, without any means of subsistence at
all, and to have beyond that no one in the world
anywhere who cares the fall of a pin whether you
have subsistence or no—but, worse than that,
far, far worse, is to be, at my age, without any
means at all of filling the twenty-four hours—day
after day stretching in front of you, naked, bare,
and of an infinite, infinite length.
Many English officers who had deserved
something of their country were in this state after
the war until a lucky job found them, or, more
probably, death from sickness, despair, suicide.
I know that it was very easily said by those who
were more secure that it was simple enough for
these men to find some kind of work, that it was
only, often enough, a kind of effete snobbishness
that prevented them. ,
But that simply was not the truth. Thousands
of men were ready for any job, were ready at last,
I fear, for almost any degradation . . . that re¬
curring emptiness of the endless succeeding
days beats any Chinese torture for long-drawn
ma I had been like that, and it had had its
effect on my vitality, my vision, my courage and
my sense of reality. I have written these words
here because, looking back on this strange hal
hour that I am about to describe I can see that I
was not quite in my sane mind—it is my un
balanced vision that I am trying here to recover
The first reaction of that same unbalanced
vision was to the light. I saw, as I stood on the
pavement outside that door, from a clock on the
chap.viii SHADOW PURSUING 145
opposite side of the street that it was only half-past
eight. Only a quarter of an hour, then, had
passed since that meeting with Helen and the
awful descent of those stairs. Unbelievable, in¬
credible fact! It seemed to me that I had been
plunged into an icily chill well of darkness with
my huddled companion for hours of time. But
there in the face of that clock were the facts.
Anyway, I had been in darkness and now was
blinded with light. I had been in silence and now
was deafened with sound. I had not at that time
visited America, but I have had since then that
dazzling and exciting experience, and I can well
understand how dim and shabby an affair Picca¬
dilly Circus must seem to proud citizens of Broad¬
way s fantastic bizarrerie. I will go further, and
admit that the Circus never after this evening was
to have for me the flame and thunder that it had at
this particular hour. My experiences of it were,
thank God, never to be the same again! But now,
as I emerged into it, I seemed to be held by a
barrier of fire. I wanted to hide: on the con¬
trary, every eye of that pushing multitude seemed
to stare at me, and at my side, never leaving me,
taking soft step in step with mine, was Pengelly’s
sdadow. It was, as a matter of fact, the last ten
minutes of one of the Circus’s two most crowded
evemng hours. When I had gone out earlier to
l was preparing for battle.
, , e k att f had been joined, the restaurants
and theatres filled, but already the tendency, which
is now so marked, to dine ever later and later, was
eginning to be felt, and there were the thronging
L
146 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS book n
cars and cabs of the late-comers to the theatres, and
a great, pushing crowd of pedestrians, released
from shops and families and duties, flowing aim¬
lessly from point to point.
But at first I could see nothing for the glare.
Once again snow was beginning to fall, and I
fancy that if one could have stood on a rock above
the city one would have seen the great snowstorm
of the later hour beating its way with wings of
darkness from the salt shallows of the Essex coast.
I saw nothing but lights. I bent my head beneath
them. At the end of Shaftesbury Avenue where
I was standing blazed above me on the left the
letters of fire that announced the Revue at the
theatre, and on the right, above the chemist’s and
the sweet-shop and the tobacconist s were the
dancing lights of red and green, the trickling gold
stream of words and sentences, the trembling,
dazzling figure of a gentleman who rode a bicycle
of flame, faded into nothing, rode again, and faded
again inlo darkness. Under this blaze the stream
of men and women ceaselessly flowed.
From where I stood I shared with the crowd
a position immediately under the windows of
Osmund’s flat, and my first quite absurd mpres-
sion was that they had all gathered there because
they were waiting for some sensational develop
ments I had the conviction, I remember, that
Hooked up I should see Pengelly hanging, doll-
wise° out of Osmund’s window, as the puppet does
^ ‘kief Everyone! ' I could hear him calling.
. They’ve tried to murder me in here, the dirty
SHADOW PURSUING
CHAP. VIII
147
dogs. They have indeed! But they’ve failed.
. . . Come up and see! ’
The crowd would stop and listen, and then they
would turn and start pell-mell up the stairs, push¬
ing, shoving, fighting to get a good view. I knew
what crowds were like when there was something
for them to see! Yes, and how like a pack of
dogs they were!
Then I began to have the sensation that people
were looking at me with suspicious glances. It
was likely enough that they were, for I was dirty,
dishevelled, without hat or coat. But it did not
seem impossible that Pengelly was down there on
the pavement at my elbow, shuffling along beside
me, moving when I moved, coming to a standstill
when I came to a standstill—I did not dare to
turn round and look. But I had to get away from
there, right away. I stared across the Circus as
across a sea. The huts and planks of the ex¬
cavators stood out, ragged and sinister under the
blaze. In the black cavern of one of them hung a
lighted lantern that was like the red eye of some
dragon lurking in the entrance of its cave. The
nakedness of those boards made everything all
around them unreal. I regarded them with
shivering apprehension.
• T? Safe , P k “ for me was the Tube. There,
in the bowels of the earth, I could be free of this
secur^ g K Sh l C ° W ; 1 Could s P eed awa 7 to some
or EaIini >Urb Tr th a I comf °" tin g name like Balham
or Ealing. There I would find shelter. Some-
bone7° U f be kmd t0 me ' 1 wouId work myself
boneless for any kind stranger. What I wanted
BOOK II
148 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
was kindliness, friendliness, warmth—and to
forget utterly and for ever that moment when
Pengelly hung in mid-air, his legs kicking, or that
other moment, later, when the young man staring
over the flare of his lighter saw that yellow face
and that protruding tongue.
I hurried across the Circus feeling that a
million startled eyes followed me, and when I
reached the entrance to the Tube I paused,
breathless as though I had been a hundred
miles. .
But, all my life long, I shall remember with
kindness that sheltering porch, for here, for the
first time, I had a sense of protection. My pur¬
suers seemed for a while to have stayed their chase.
I stood back against the wall while the crowds
passed up and down the steps behind me, and
recovered a little my self-possession.
Very quickly there followed the accusing
^ ‘ What are you doing? You are running
away You have left the woman whom you
profess to love in a situation of extreme danger
You must go back.’ I would not go back. No, I
would not go back. .... . j* „
4 I beg your pardon? said someone standing
beside me. I looked up and saw a fresh-faced
rather stout man nervously watching the Tube
entrance. , . , T a
4 I didn’t say anything, I ansvvered. _
4 Oh I thought you did. Cold waiting here,
isn’t it? And it’s nearly a quarter to nine. Damned
shame, I call it.
SHADOW PURSUING
CHAP- VIII
149
‘ Yes,’ I answered, taking refuge in his com¬
pany.
‘ Rummy things women,’ he went on. ‘ Simply
don’t know what punctuality means. I told her
—I won’t wait one minute after the quarter, I said,
and neither I will—not a minute-’
* Perhaps something’s kept her,’ I said.
‘ Oh, she’ll have her excuse, right enough,’ he
went on. ‘ She’s a marvel for excuses—’bus
broke down or there was only room on top or some
damn thing. Anyway, if she doesn’t come in the
next ten minutes-*
I couldn t help myself. The cold was awful.
I shivered from foot to neck, and my head had a
separate existence altogether, jerking like a man¬
darin s. He looked at me curiously. He had
a jolly, friendly, unsuspicious countenance, and
it he ever reads this and, looking back, remembers
a hatless, coatless individual to whom he talked
once some years ago for five minutes in the
entrance to the Piccadilly Tube, he may as well
know that I’m grateful.
I say isn’t it a bit chilly without a hat or
coat?
I just ran out,’ my teeth chattered, ‘ for a
moment to see ( someone. Said he’d meet me
here. He hasn t come. I’ll go back.’
But the curious thing was that I suddenly dis¬
covered that I couldn’t for the life of me go down
those steps into that Tube! No, I could not
and tor the very good reason that at the bottom
ot those steps, just in front of the bookstall, Pen-
gelly was waiting for me! For many years the
i^o ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS book«
same man had been in charge of that bookstall.
He was a rather large man, with a bowler hat
tilted a little to the back of his head, and when
you tendered him money he handed you news¬
papers rather as though you were one of the
criminal classes. He meant nothing offensive,
I’m sure, but there it was—I never could ask him
for a News or a Standard without feeling that I
had my best friend’s silver spoons in my pocket,
and that he was aware of the fact! Although I
did not turn my head, everything behind my back
was clear to me, on the left the steps leading down
to the cloakroom, on the right the ticket-office
with a little queue of people forming, then the
steps, beyond them the bookstall piled high with
gaily-coloured magazines and papers, and perched
up in his bowler hat, looking out like a magician
from his castle window, the stout-faced ironist.
To the right of him, quite close to the magazines,
Pengelly. Pengelly, for certain. Pengelly, with
his small pale, vivid, snake-glance under the shabby
hat the waterproof hanging from him, waiting,
quite motionless, until I came down. ...
q ‘ Evening News, please, says a little stout
woman, holding up her penny, and the ironist, his
bowler hat half off his head, looking over her con
temotuously, gives her the paper. The lift gates
clang' The icy wind with the snuffle of snow
in k 8 s' nostrils blows through the passages but
Pengelly does not move—he is waiting forme^there
‘Well ' said the man at my elbow. Another
three minutes I give her-and then-good-mght
all!’
chap, viii SHADOW PURSUING
I was absorbed in my struggle to turn and force
myself down those steps.
He’s not there! You know he’s not there.
He was killed in Osmund’s flat. Already per¬
haps Buller has thrown that body with which you
struggled into the river. There’s nothing there
by that bookstall. You know there’s nothing! ’
But yes-—he is standing there, and to the left
of him, indifferently, obediently, the lift gates
open and shut.
It 1 were you,’ said my friend, 4 I wouldn’t
stand there any longer without a coat—I wouldn’t
really. You’ll catch your death. Well, I’ll be
moving . . . ah! *
I felt his body warm with pleasure. He
stepped forward. A pretty girl in a little fawn-
coloured hat came to meet him. They held
hands I heard her say: ‘ I'm terribly sorry,
b 1 am - There wasn’t a 'bus—they
were all full, even on top. I can tell you I was
iussing—I knew how vexed you’d be. . .
They moved away, her hand through his arm.
, And f, that 1 j cannot possibly convey to you
how wretchedly desolate I felt. It swept down
pon me, like a voice from heaven, that I was for
ever separated now from all mankind, ostracised
alone, abandoned. ... ic u,
I cowered against the wall into the dark. They
were going those two, loving one another, into
nlZ ° W \ hapPy pl f CC > but f ° r ™ ‘here was no
place, no home, no love.
>nto it, about it and around, JJTeJSj
BOOK II
152 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
happy thing in the world—men and women
by the fire, the stir of the falling coal below
the lamp, the dancers turning cheek to cheek
to the band’s rhythm, the colours and scents
and warmth brought for someone else’s happi¬
ness the door opening to a beloved voice, closing
upon the intimacy of hushed voices in talk,
bells ringing, dogs and cats, toys and coloured
ribbons and tin trumpets, the slow realisation ot
the truth and fidelity of a great friendship, birth
and death shared by will and desire, work done
eagerly for another’s glory, a chorus of voices
singing, the tones rising above the hum of the
traffic, and the measured tread of passing men
all this never for me again, because henceforth 1
was marked apart.
I went off with my head down.
I found myself outside the entrance to the tea-
dace where I had met Hench, and there, standing
erect in the doorway, was old Father Christmas
with his sign aloft, just as it had been all those
years before Pengelly s visit.
I stopped.
He nodded his head- ‘ Aye,'he said. 'Batter.
Wh .',t oC' r»”y p£yin B dominoes. Came
OUt He t wasrediy t a $ dear old man, with blue eyes
“ “ytumustbewarm" I said, ‘wearing that false
bea ‘ d It5 r a h °bTt S 'iicklish at times, 1 he answered.
CHAP. VIII
SHADOW PURSUING
153
‘ But I don’t complain—got to do something
these days. Lucky to get this job. That’s the
way I look at it.’
‘ What are your hours? ’ I asked him. His
nose was as red as a cherry.
‘ Four to ten. There’s another man—ten to
four. He ’ates the beard. Positively ’ates it.
I says to ’im—what’s a beard for a ’our or two?
Makes ’im look silly, ’e thinks, and ’e isn’t much
to look at neither. But ’e’s younger than me.
Thinks it beneath ’im.’
‘ Nothing’s beneath you if you do it well,’ I
replied sententiously.
‘Just what I say to ’im. There’s plenty worse
jobs. On a cold night especially. Why, I’m
all stuffed up inside to give me a chest. I’m
quite a little man, really. Thin-made. Always
was. And it’s a blessing, all this wadding, cold
night like this.’ B
He took away a little of my desolation. He
seemed to find nothing unusual in my appearance.
I was a man to him like another.
I knew suddenly what it was that I wanted to
do. I wanted to tell him all about everything—
yes, everything—and then to ask him—must I go
back to that flat again, fling myself once more
into all that horror? Would he go back if he
were me? What use to see again a woman I loved
^nshe was married to my friend? Maybe he
would help me to escape from this terror, this
sense of pursuit, this shadow of ostracism!
ui WaS SUC ^ a Very k' nc * °ld man, with his
mild blue eyes and cherry-coloured nose. Had he
BOOK II
154 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
ever stumbled with a knee-knocking corpse down
dark stairs? Maybe he had, and that was why he
was so charitable.
‘ Don’t have anyone much as late as this, do
you? ’ I asked him.
‘ You’d be surprised. People come in for a
quiet chop— and chat. Many’s the marriage been
fixed up in our place—quarrels too—plenty of
them. I’ve seen ’em go up those stairs as ’appy
as you like, and come down ’alf an ’our later all
red in the face and separate. Aye, life’s queer! ’
he sighed through his beard.
I wanted to tell him—what? Should I go
back? Could I flee even though I wished to?
* Have you ever-? ’ I began.
And then stopped. His mild blue eyes bent
amiably upon me, but, in an instant, turned sharp
with suspicion. My words had made him un¬
comfortable. He suddenly, I suppose, began to
put two and two together. Queer man, coming
out of nowhere without hat or coat, a stubbly
beard, said he’d been playing dominoes, frightened
of something, nervous, staring about him, asking
me whether I’d ever-
Something queer here. Don’t want to be
mixed up in it. Been mixed up with enough in
my time. That girl down at Hackney. . . . That
night I drank too much at the 4 Peacock ’ and got
mixed up with . . . yes . . . precisely. That’s why
I’m here now holding up a ruddy pole, dressed
in a fancy beard, on a snowy night! No, thank
y ° U So my dear old Father Christmas was, in an
CHAP. VIII
SHADOW PURSUING
155
instant, a stranger. Oh, but removed from me a
thousand, thousand miles! His eyes were frosty.
His sham beard bristled with suspicion, the pole
that he was holding was his weapon of defence.
That isolation again !—and even as I was aware
of it I knew that Pengelly had left his post by the
station bookstall and was turning the corner
towards me.
1 Good night,’ I said abruptly, and left him.
I crossed to the huts, the planks, the scaffold-
ing. Here Eros had once been, here had once
been the stout flower-women with their roses,
violets, carnations—now all was ruin, and a period
in man’s civilisation was closed. But I didn’t care
just then a hoot for man’s civilisation. Ever more
pressingly now was driving in upon me the ques¬
tion as to whether I would desert Helen or no.
Nothing but that. Should I force myself back to
t at room that room with the unfinished mottled
walls, the blowing candles, the little ivory land¬
scapes on the secretaire, and take up again all
resp° ns ibili t y for that moment when Osmund
had lifted Pengelly into the air—or should I leave
it all like a bad dream behind me, forgetting
Helen, gwing .Pengelly the slip? . . . Giving
Pengelly the slip? Even as the thought came to
me t knew that he had crept into his shelter just
inside the large dark canvas hood that crouched
reside the hole where the red lantern hung. What
a place for him to hide, here where the depths
went down into the very bowels of the earth. In
my fantastu: apprehension I could feel the cold
stitt fingers about my neck and those strong, wiry
156 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS bookii
arms pulling me down, past the lantern’s red eye,
until the air grew stuffier and the damp thick
earth began to press into my nostrils.
I looked up and out, to the sky shining with
leaping signs, to the walls of dark buildings, and
almost exactly opposite me Osmund’s window, a
black square embedded in a darting field of red
and green stars.
I almost ran across the Circus, hiding myself
in the crowd, feeling nothing but cold, fear,
and the inevitability of that pursuing figure.
I turned towards the Regent Palace Hotel and
saw on the right above my head in very large
letters, ‘ Chinese Restaurant.’
I had only my half-crown. I was no fitting
person for any restaurant, but I was cold and
frightened. I turned in and climbed the stairs.
On the wall above the staircase were Chinese pic¬
tures, white marble backgrounds with sprays of
pink blossom, bridges, temples, tea-houses, and
underneath them English advertisements of
Worcester Sauce, Corsets, and Trips to Geneva.
As I turned the corner a girl and a man passed
me and she saidi ,
« But what I say is you don’t know what you re
eating. It isn’t like a good square meal you can
g ‘ V AndThat /said as I turned to the
restaurant was: ‘I won't go back. ... Oh, God!
don’t make me go back! I don’t want to see that
mom ap-ain I don’t want ever to see-
room agai . ,; te Chinaman in evening
■ w, > p ,ace “ » bie
CHAP. VIII
SHADOW PURSUING
*57
by the window.* For the room was surprisingly
full, surprisingly for that hour, I mean. At every
table people were sitting, and at the table pointed
out to me there were a man and a woman. I went
over and sat opposite them. I was next to the
window. I could look down and see the curve of
the Circus and the narrow street that runs to the
Regent Palace. Against the wall of the street
a woman was selling papers. She had a placard,
and on it in large letters was this sentence:
‘ Tragedy in a West-End Flat.’
I shivered. Perhaps it was Osmund’s flat that
they meant. Buller’s car had been stopped. They
had searched it and found the huddled figure on
the back seat. Or he had been caught with the
body just behind Dirk’s (wherever or whatever
Dirk’s might be) and now Osmund and Helen
and Hench. . . .
‘ Is there much difference between the four-
shilling and four-and-sixpenny dinner? ’ I asked
the English waiter.
* The four-and-sixpenny is chicken soup,’ he
answered wearily and with his eye on the placard
below the window.
All right. I’ll have the four-and -sixpenny/
(He s seen it too> I thought. Everyone must be
talking about it.)
The pair opposite me sat demurely side by side.
She was a thin woman in a red hat and he a stout,
round-faced fellow, very English, very quiet and,
I could see, very amiable. They might be an
engaged couple, but if so they had been engaged
for long enough; they were not romantic about
BOOK II
158 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
one another—simply quiet, kindly, content. The
waiter had just placed in front of them large
dishes of uncertain shape and complexion. One
appeared to be a pie of some sort, another was a
confusion of vegetables.
‘ Chopsticks? ’ asked the waiter. They shook
their heads.
‘ I may as well go over and choose some of the
silver,’ she said. ‘ It will save mother the trouble.’
He was the quietest man I had ever seen—not
only external quiet but internal—quite settled and
contented. Yes, perhaps they were shortly to be
married.
‘ It’s just the same,’ she said, ‘ since we were
last here. Do you remember—that was the time
we saw “ Mary Rose ” ? ’
He nodded his head again. ... I had never seen
better, kindlier eyes.
* No, but what do you think about the silver?
Or shall I wait until you can come with me? ’
‘ No, you go—no need for me.’
They began to help themselves. I saw that
they were practised with this Chinese food, mixing
it and knowing exactly what they were about.
Meanwhile I had been brought a bowl that
seemed to contain hot water with fragments of
naked chicken floating in it. I could eat nothing.
I felt terribly sick. If that newspaper placard
were concerned with Osmund’s flat, then it would
be madness for me to return there. The police
would be there. I could aid Helen more easily it
I kept away. , . -a
1 That woman,’ the lady in the red hat said,
CHAP. VIII
SHADOW PURSUING
I 59
‘ laughs like Lucy. Just as silly. It’s funny—
Lucy’s laugh hasn’t changed in all these years.’
‘ She’s all right,’ he muttered, staring into the
pie. They had been married for years. They
lived abroad. China perhaps. My soup was
taken away and something put in its place. But
my eyes, that seemed now to have some quite
independent life of their own, would not leave the
door. At any moment he might appear, his hat
about his brows, his hands in his coat-pockets.
And then what would I do? As he crossed the
room, his eyes fixed on mine, ghost or no ghost.. ..
I saw that the stout fellow was looking at me.
His gaze, which was (as always, I suppose) most
kindly, saved my eyes from their terror. I smiled
timidly.
I beg your pardon,’ I said. * This is the first
time I ve been in here. I didn’t know what to
order, so I just had the dinner. But your things
look awfully good.’
The woman was charming. Her thin face lit
up as she talked. She told me what the things
were. I don’t remember now their names.
t You live in China? ’ I asked.
Straits Settlements,’ said the man. I never
saw anyone that I would have sooner made a
friend of.
Does London seem very different when you
come back? ’ I asked. But my eyes would shift
0 th ^ door > anc * * knew that he had seen my
apprehension, that he was the kind of Englishman
whom nothing to do with facts escapes, that he
Knew that I was in some sort of serious trouble.
i6o ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
4 Not so very,’ she answered. 4 There are
always the theatres and one’s friends and things
going on.’ She was very kind. How nice you
are, I thought, not to mind that I’m shabby and
unshaved . . . but she wasn’t perceptive as he was,
didn’t know that I was in desperate trouble.
And then, how terribly, with what a maniacal
desire I wanted to confide in him! To take him
aside and say to him: 4 Look here, an hour ago in
a friend’s flat. . . .’ I pretended to eat my food.
How I was to pay I had no idea! It did not seem
to matter. And then it suddenly mattered to me
terribly, for there, at the farther end of the room,
under a hanging cluster of Chinese decorations, was
Pengelly sitting. He had his back turned to me,
but there could be no doubt of it. The hat, the
waterproof, the thin, slouching figure. He was
waiting for me, and when I rose to go he too would
rise.
»
I began to tremble, and I saw that my friend
opposite me watched my hands.
He said to his wife: ‘We must cut the rest or
we’ll be too late. Anyway the preserves are too
sweet. . . .’
He asked for the bill, paid it, rose. ^
I had the cowardice almost to cry out, Don t
go! Don’t leave me! I must tell you. . . . I
think that my lips even moved. She smiled at me,
I bowed, then she started to the door. He
followed her slowly suddenly turned back and
then his eyes gravely regarding mine, before 1
could understand, murmured ‘ Forgive me ! had
caught my hand, pressing something into it. It
CHAP. VIII
SHADOW PURSUING . 161
was a ten-shilling note. So he had thought that
that was my trouble!
My head cleared. I saw that the man at the
room-end was not indeed Pengelly. My fear
slipped from me, and, instead, I had the strongest
consciousness—I saw my volume of Quixote lying
solitary on Osmund’s refectory table. Of all the
odd things that night that was perhaps the oddest,
for the thought of that lonely rose-coloured
volume decided me. I would go back. I could
not leave it there. I should never forgive myself
were it lost.
With my ten-shilling note I paid my bill, and
five minutes later, in the heart of a profound silence,
was ringing the bell of Osmund’s flat.
M
CHAPTER IX
HELEN
I don’t know what it was that I expected to see
when the door opened—two policemen in the hall,
Osmund and Hench guarded while the flat was
searched, anything you please. . . . What I did see
was the little place as quiet and reflective as a
graveyard—and Helen.
I came in, closing the door quietly behind me.
I must have looked to her cold, pale, dirty, desolate,
for at once her movement towards me was one of
protection, maternal, the kind of anxiety that no
one had shown towards me for many a day.
‘ I thought you mightn’t come back. ... I
hoped that you wouldn’t.’
I looked at her and smiled. Oh! I was so
glad to see her! The confusion and fantasy or
the Circus dropped from me as I stood beside her.
I was no longer afraid. I knew that I saw things
sanely again. _ Q ,
Then I quickly perceived her own change, one
was a woman of deep reserve and strength of will.
She yielded to no weakness; at any rate, no other
human being should know that she yielded.
But this last hour had done something to all or
162
CHAP. IX
HELEN
us—‘ peeled a skin off/ as Unamuno says some¬
where.
I did not know at that moment—I was to know
very shortly—what, indeed, this last hour had
been for her, something more disintegrating than
I could then guess. But we were all—Osmund,
Hench, she and I—people in another world now.
The scene was of a fierce bright colour, the figures
strange, every movement had a new echo. And
the rules that we had to obey were new rules.
‘ Osmund? ’ I asked.
‘ He’s gone.’ She breathed quickly,
back at the sitting-room, whose door was
open.
looking
slightly
Mr. Hench is in there. He’s sleeping like
a drugged man. After you’d gone he began to
cry. John gave him some brandy. He drank it,
and quite suddenly went off to sleep. He’s there
on the sofa.’
I pushed back the door and looked in. The
room was in a trembling, twittering dusk. There
were no lights, but the curtains had remained
drawn back from the windows; there was the
golden shadow like starry dust about the room,
and on the wall the jumping sky-signs. On the
sofa where Pengelly had been, Hench was lying,
his stout soft body shapeless like an undisciplined
bolster, his head back, his mouth open, and out of
is mouth proceeded a long-drawn, whining snore.
Ihis snore filled the whole flat with its regular
rhythmical beat. 6
4 We’ll go into the bedroom/ she said. 4 It’s
better to leave him.’
BOOK II
164 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
I followed her. We closed the door, and then
sat on the bed side by side.
She began, in that low, deep, trusting voice that
I loved so dearly.
‘ Oh, Dick, I didn’t want you to come back—
but I’m so glad you have. If you hadn’t, I don’t
know, I don’t see how. . . .’ She looked at me,
then smiling (a new different smile, a smile
belonging to the new country in which we now
were) ... 4 You’re so dirty. Go and wash. It
must be hateful being as dirty as that.’
I nodded and went through the room into the
bathroom. While I washed I listened, and I can
give you no idea of how strange that sound of
Hench’s snore was, dominating the quiet flat.
Honk—Honk—One, Two, Three. Honk—
Honk. That snore, too, was a snore of the new
world, sinister, threatening, charged with mean¬
ing. ...
I washed. I scrubbed. I brushed my hair
with Osmund’s brushes. I longed to shave myself
with his razor, but it would take too long.
I went back to her.
‘ Now tell me where Osmund is,’ I said.
‘ I don’t know where he is. After you and
Mr. Buller left-’
‘ No, but before that? ’ I interrupted. When
you were alone with him while we were in that
other room. What did he say to you? I want to
know everything.’
« Everything?’ She gave me one of her old
ironical smiles. ‘ You won’t know everything.
No one can about this.’ Her voice sank almost
CHAP- IX
HELEN
165
to a whisper. * That’s why it’s terrible—because
there are so many things in it that we can’t get at.
The change—from the one world to the other—
it was so sudden—everything now is unreal—
everything .’
She paused as though she were thinking some¬
thing out. She went on. 4 We have very little
time. John may come back, or—anything can
happen. But there’s a parallel with this—some¬
thing that haunts me. Years ago I had a woman
friend—only an acquaintance, if you like. I didn’t
know her well, but she was charming, sympathetic,
kindly, intelligent. I asked her to stay with me
in a flat that I had then in Kensington. The first
evening she was delightful. We went to a concert,
I remember, and both of us enjoyed every minute
of it. Next morning the same; we talked, laughed,
found that we liked the same things. Tea-time
she went to her room for a nap before we dined.
I went in an hour later and woke her up. She
awoke, Dick, an utterly other creature—malevo¬
lent, rude, querulous—the very lines of her face
were different. We had an awful evening; and
next morning, after a horrible row in which she
behaved like a fishwife, she left. I can’t tell you
how disgusting it was, how utterly puzzled I was,
because there was no conceivable reason for any
°* **• Later I learnt that she was a hopeless drug
addict. I’ve always thought that that instant,
uncausable change in her was one of the most
dreadful and depressing experiences of my life.
Causeless, fiendish—How are you to believe in
the human soul when a drug can do that} How
166 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
many worlds are there, and where is there anything
to trust to, to put your hand firmly on? . . . We
are wasting time, but that moment when I pushed
past John and looked into that room ... it was
like that ... a fierce change from one world to
another that we hadn’t asked for—and we’ve got
to live in this world now always—everything is
different ; there’s nothing to trust to—anything
can happen. ...
‘ We’re not different, Helen,’ I broke in.
4 You and I.’
4 We are. Better or worse, I don’t know, but
different anyway. And John—when he brought
me in here to tell me—it was awful. Two things
had happened. One, I was so afraid of him that
when he touched me I could have screamed—and
I’m not hysterical, you know, Dick. And the
other, that I was so glad that Pengelly was dead,
so frightfully, horribly glad! If only it hadn’t
been John who had done it! And all the time he
was talking to me I was saying to myself: “ You
mustn’t let him see that you’re different, that
you’re afraid of him, that you hate his touch. He
mustn’t know anything !
4 And did he? ’
4 I can’t tell. But it was pitiful. He needed
me then as he had never needed me before, and I
could do nothing for him—nothing. It had been
coming a long time, my terror of him, I mean.
And yet—what I tell you is true—he is one of the
finest, noblest men ever born.’
She put her hand through my arm, drawing
herself to me:
CHAP. IX
HELEN
167
‘ You don’t know what it is to me to talk to
you. I haven’t had anybody for years. We’ve
been driven from pillar to post. Even in Spain
someone would turn up who knew about John, and
everywhere it was the same thing—he saw his
enemies round everything. The odd thing was
that he never blamed them or hated them. He
thought it right that they should hunt him.’
‘ They weren’t hunting him,’ I broke in.
That was imagination. People are too busy with
their own affairs to care. They haven’t time or
energy to hunt anyone.*
‘ Maybe. Probably. But what does it matter?
If you think you’re hunted you are hunted. A
little imagination is enough. But he was hunted,
in any case, by himself. He couldn’t escape what
he wanted to be, what he wanted to do. He was a
prisoner.*
She paused, and we were silent for a moment.
I remember that it struck me then how strange this
quiet talk was after all the confusion and violence
the two of us sitting side by side on the bed,
no sound anywhere but Hench’s snore that had
now become an accustomed element in our world,
the things in the bedroom, the brushes, the look¬
ing-glass, the cupboard, and the two of us, moving
actually moving to a sort of happy tranquillity 1
dare say that it often happens that, after some
awtul catastrophe, one sits for an hour almost
s eepily tranquil. The thing’s done. For the
moment all that there is for one is to stay and
await the consequences. There really was just
then nothing else for us to do, and, as I was to
168 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
learn afterwards, over her, as over myself, gradu¬
ally was stealing the knowledge of how deeply we
loved, and that, whatever the future might be, we
had at least these moments.
I put out my hand and took hers.
* Tell me first,’ I said, ‘ before the Spanish
part, what exactly happened just now, what
Osmund said, where he’s gone. . . .’
‘ What he said? He just said: “ I killed him
and he deserved it. He was rotten all through.”
I said nothing. I could think of nothing at that
particular moment except that Pengelly was at
last dead. You don’t know—you can have no
possible idea—of the way that that man has
haunted us. He never actually interfered with
us, and yet he was always there. We were never
free of him. In Spain—in Segovia, where we
buried ourselves—he was there just the same.
It didn’t matter where we went or what we did. I
always knew that he would turn up again.
‘ So that, when John told me that he was dead,
I could think only that we were free.
‘ But, of course, we were not free. A moment
later John said, looking at me in despair—“ So
he’s beaten me after all. I’m damned for ever,
and he knows it.” I knew that the only thing
for me to say then was that I was with him through
everything, and that together we’d beat whatever
came to us. But I couldn’t! Dick, that was the
dreadful, unforgivable moment of my life ! Ihe
words stuck. I only knew that I would be hyjd
faithful, but that the fear of him that had been
growing in me for years had reached in this last
I
1 CHAP. IX
HELEN
act of his the point when I could control it no
longer, when it was stronger than I was.’
‘ Why were you afraid of him? ’
‘ I had always been afraid of him. I don’t
think I ever loved him. That has been my sin
from the beginning. I admired him, feared him,
and couldn’t leave him. In the old days I was
always being drawn to him, and when he wasn’t
there I longed for a sight of him and the sound of
his voice, and when I was with him I used to
tremble—not at him so much, but at some power
in him that was stronger than he was. Some¬
thing that drove him to desperate things. All
his desire for noble action, his love of grand
things, his idealism, would be used and twisted to
something disastrous. His very love for me,
which has never faltered, made him irascible,
miserable, dissatisfied.’
‘ Bad luck,’ I said.
Rotten luck. The worst ever. You know
that I’m not sentimental. I’m not very weak
either. I don’t suffer fools as gladly as I ought.
1 ve no sympathy for hysteria. But John could
make me hysterical and weak and soft—not simply
because I was so sorry for him, but because I
didn t °v e him, didn’t know how to help him.
r . , Wel ‘> J th J ls , eveni ng when I knew that I was
atraid and didn t want even to touch him, I was so
sorry for him that I could have flung my arms
round him and kissed him. But there is some-
terrihlp 01 ^ ab ° Ut a man ’ som ething
terrible and apart. The war was different. That
was a world of its own. Men obeyed orders and
BOOK II
170 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
chances were equal. But back in rooms and
quiet flats, with boys crying the evening papers,
there is something frightful, horrible, that is
devilish. And John’s right. He’ll never be free
of it now, however loathsome Pengelly was. I’m
the only soul in the world who could help him—
and I can’t.’
‘ What did he do? ’
* He said that Pengelly wasn’t dead—or wasn’t
so far as he was concerned. He raved a bit—
that Pengelly and he were joined together for
ever and ever. Then he began about not drag¬
ging the rest of you into it. That you must, none
of you, suffer, and that he must go after Buller. I
told him that Buller knew his job—better to leave
him to it. I was out of it, Dick. I couldn’t say
anything to him that would help. For one thing
_to be truthful—I was thinking of you. Every
moment I was expecting to hear that you and
Buller had been stopped—the bell ringing
some policeman’s voice. ... I’ve pluck as a rule,
but those ten minutes in this room were too much
for me. There were too many different things
pulling at me. I felt that if I were only sure
that you were safe I could deal then with the
st ^
it was at that point, I think, that we were both
aware of this new element now flooding in upon
us and drowning everything else—our love tor
0 ne We 0 were neither of us either very young or
very romantic any more. We have grown much
younger since then. Life had been hard and
CHAP. IX
HELEN
171
ugly to both of us for a long time, and we had both
the sense that on the whole we had not been given a
fair deal. We knew that least of all now were we
having a fair deal, and that these minutes that
we were sharing were in all probability the last of
our lives together.
We were neither shy nor self-conscious, but
we tried for a little while to postpone any per¬
sonal emotion. There was something in all this
more important than ourselves and our private
histories.
‘ Look here/ I said, ‘ we are both sensible,
Helen. There are only two things that can
happen. On the one hand—the most likely thing—
Pengelly’s body will be found, Osmund arrested,
and all of us publicly involved. If that happens
we 11 know how to deal with it when the time
comes. What we’ve got to do is to leave that
alone till it occurs. The other thing that can
happen is that nothing will happen—Pengelly
never found, no questions asked.’
There must be questions asked,’ she in¬
terrupted. ‘ Pengelly didn’t come in out of the
blue. He has friends, relations, wives, mistresses.
Someone will want to know what has happened to
him. In all probability he told someone to keep
an eye open. He knew that we didn’t love him,
that there must be some risk.’
That needn’t worry us,’ I answered. 4 All
WC « tv® t0 Sa ^ * S ^ at came > ta lked, departed.’
t hhd anybody see you on the stairs? ’
‘ Yes,’ I answered slowly, 4 I’m afraid two
people did—a woman and a man. That would
BOOK II
172 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
be awkward. The man especially. He had
rather a clear view.’
I told her about it.
‘ Oh, we’re in a mess,’ I finished up. ‘ As
bad a mess as could be. It can end in everything,
anything, nothing. And that’s why I want to
tell you now—because this may be the last five
minutes together that we may ever have—that
I love you, that I have always loved you, and that
my loving you is the only grand, constant, faithful
thing in my life.’
‘ Is it, Dick? . . . Well, I love you too,^ and
have ever since . . . Oh, never mind when.’
I had the Quixote in one hand. I had picked
it up in the other room.
‘ I wanted to fetch this, so I came back. I
wanted to be with you, so I came back. One and
the same. This is the world where you and I
truly are.’
4 Yes,’ Helen agreed. 4 If you said that about
any other book in the world it would be literary
false. But that is sanity, that Quixote world.
This other is insanity, and it is because the two
are mingling . . . They are always mingling.
My life, Dick, has been passing from one mad
moment to the other, but always someone else s
madness. We ought to have married years ago,
had a cottage, children, dogs, grown potatoes, had
daffodils on the lawn and a grandfather s clock
in the hall—a down or a hill rising above our
back door, and the sea not too far away. V\e
would have gone to stay in Edinburgh wig the
Maughams or the Baggots or the Freers. Or we
CHAP. IX
HELEN
173
would have motored over to see Jane Herries at
Keswick, and she would have given us plants for
our garden. You would have gone to Spain in
an Austin Seven and written a bad book about it.
Our eldest boy Richard would have chicken-pox,
and Mary, the second girl, would have a talent
for housekeeping, while Sybil would think of
nothing but hockey. And you after ten years or
so would see a girl at a dance with a straight nose
and Titian hair, and you would love me just the
same but kiss the Titian hair, and I would try
to be sensible and fail for a bit and then succeed.
No madness anywhere . . . everything sane and
straight. . . .’
She turned her head from me and softly, lean¬
ing away from me, began to cry. Of all the
things that I could have conceived her doing,
crying was the last, the most impossible; I think,
perhaps, she had never cried before. I put my
arms round her. She lay against my heart. At
last she said: ‘ And that’s that. Don’t be afraid.
No more tears.’
But our contact was not to be broken. I re¬
member that I held her to me as though my only
hope of safety were in that. Then I did the worst
or all my actions that night.
Helen,* I said. * Let’s go. Now, while we
have the chance. We can be abroad by to-morrow
morning. We have our passports. There’s
nothing to stop us. I haven’t any money at the
moment, but there are your friends the Tessiers
in Paris, they’ll get me a job. Didn’t you tell me
once that he had a business in Tunis? I’ll sweep
BOOK II
174 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
floors, do anything. Osmund won’t drag us back
into this. He’ll take it all.’
But even as I said his name I stopped. I was
ashamed. She sighed. ‘ Yes—it would be
wonderful. Why be sentimental about it? If
our consciences would let us we’d go. But they
won’t. We’d never have a happy moment again.
I couldn’t leave John now. You know that I
couldn’t. . . . No, Dick, I suspect that this is
our last time together. Pengelly will be found,
John arrested, all of us involved. We must go
through with it just as we’ve gone through with
everything else.’
‘ Oh, Helen! ’ I cried, ‘ what a muddle! Our
lives spoilt, all of them, and for no fault of our own.’
‘ No, for our fault—always for our fault. If
John had more discipline, I more understanding
and sympathy—’
1 You—more sympathy! ’ I broke in.
She nodded.
* Yes, that is what has always been the matter
with me! The machine of my soul moves stiffly.
When certain people are near me, round it goes,
functioning with smoothness. How nice I am
then, how understanding, wise, kindly! Another
approaches, and every cog in the wheel is checked.
I can comprehend only one-tenth of your human
beings and have no chanty for the rest. You
could teach me. I don’t think that you are very
=« aaa* ass*!*
CHAP. IX
HELEN
*75
into my eyes, and we sat there, absorbed in one
another, not hearing Hench’s snore, forgetting
Pengelly, forgetting for the moment Osmund,
and not caring what happened next.
Like all lovers, we began to recover the slightest
details of our early meetings, and over the Circus
there crept the oddest little rag-bag of trifles, the
wind-swept empty village street, the sea pounding
like a dream at the end of it, an avenue of trees
with a carriage crawling towards a high stone gate,
someone climbing a staircase and looking back, a
pebble beach wet and gleaming after the departing
sea, an Alsatian bounding across a green lawn in
chase of its master, a novel read in a deep arm¬
chair, absorbing in its interest until the door
opens, and, at someone’s entrance, that interest is
dead a laugh, a cry, a call, a turn of the head, a
wave of the hand—and, always encircling us both,
that sea leaping upon the shingly beach, and those
woods, still and deep, or blowing lightly or crack¬
ling under storm. We yet seemed to move there.
As we talked, gazing at one another, hand in hand,
all this present adventure was as unreal to us as
it must seem now in retrospect often to myself.
We had our moment, and we lived it to the full.
Remember, Helen,’ I told her, 4 that what¬
ever happens now we have had this half-hour—
and remember that as I am now so I will always
uc*
She shook her head, smiling. ‘ No. No one
can tell that. If John gives me a black eye to-
night, to-morrow you may be wondering that you
ever gave me a thought. Always leave the future.
BOOK II
176 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
Make no vows. But you are right about this
half-hour. That shall last for ever, and no one can
rob us of it.*
We kissed and were so happy that the Circus
burst into flame, the Quixote stood on its rose-
coloured binding and danced for joy, and all the
angels clapped their wings.
‘ And now,’ at last she said, getting up and
going to the looking-glass, ‘ for the next business.’
She stared into the glass, and, with a cry, turned
to the door. I turned also. We had both reason
to be startled, for in the bedroom doorway Osmund
was standing.
His soft hat was pulled over his eyes, and his
coat-collar was turned up. He leaned against the
doorway and seemed fearfully weary.
Helen went up to him and put a hand on his
coat.
* Well, did you find him? ’
4 No, I found nobody.’ But he was not look¬
ing at her. He was staring at me, and I expected
in the next moment to be challenged and then
perhaps to be overwhelmed with one of those
fearful tempests of rage. He would kill me also,
maybe, as he had killed Pengelly. But when he
spoke to me his voice was infinitely kind and
‘I’m sorry you’ve come back, Dick,’ he said.
« It was good of you, but it wasn’t necessary. And
now you are back you must clear out—at once
This l none of your business, and I won t have
y ° U How I liked him then, yes, loved him, although
CHAP. IX
HELEN
- 177
I had been kissing his wife three minutes before
and asking her to go off with me. Moreover, I
felt no disloyalty to him at all. If he had chal¬
lenged me, as I had supposed that he would, I
would have admitted it at once, acknowledged
that I had always loved Helen and had wanted her
to go away with me.
The Quixote element of this strange evening
was stamped with this—the especial honesty of
Osmund, Helen and myself.
* No, John,’ I said. (It was the first time in
our acquaintance that I had called him John.)
‘ You can’t get me out of this now. I’m in it as
deeply as you are, and I’m glad that I am. I’m
not going.’
4 Indeed you are, Dick,’ he answered, smiling,
and you are going to take Helen with you. Get
up North by the night train. The Lakes or
Scotland. And wait till you hear from me. I
can manage this alone.’
, _. p°. n 1 waste time, John,’ Helen said quietly.
Dick is not going and I am not going. Take
your coat off. I’m hungry, and we must wake
riench up; you can send him up North if you
., ^ hen door-bell rang. It tinkled through
the flat, striking us all three motionless. At the
same moment, I remember, I noticed that I heard
riench s snore no longer.
Wait,’ said Osmund.
r , Y ent * nto the hall and stood there listening.
1 he bedroom, I must remind you, had two doors,
one into the hall, the other, behind us, into the
N
BOOK II
178 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
sitting-room. The bell rang again. Osmund
opened the door. At the same instant I heard the
door behind us opening, and, half-turning, saw
Hench filling the doorway with his untidy bulk.
I heard Osmund’s voice:
‘ Yes? ’
Then a soft, mild and most amiable voice:
‘ I beg your pardon. Is this Mr. Osmund’s
flat? ’
‘ Yes. I am Mr. Osmund.’
‘ Oh, thank you. I beg your pardon for dis¬
turbing you. My name is Pengelly.’
CHAPTER X
THE CURATE
So we stood, Helen and I in the bedroom, Hench
in the door behind us, Osmund in the hall. No
one moved.
Then the voice came again:
4 My name is Pengelly.’
We heard Osmund answer quietly: 4 Won’t
you come in? ’
I watched him, a tubby man, enter. He had a
round rosy face, shining (if he had been in an
old-fashioned novel) with soap and water. His
mild, amiable eyes were covered and emphasised
by spectacles with tortoise-shell rims. He was
bald on the top of his head, and had a dark
suit, a little shiny, that fitted his limbs a trifle too
closely. He was all smile and shining spectacles
and stout thigh and small friendly stomach. A
dear little man, a younger ‘Pickwick’; had he
worn a high white wall of a collar he would have
made a perfect curate. His voice suited his
appearance—gentle, urbane, humble.
‘Please forgive me. Only a moment. I
promised my brother that I would call for him
here.
*79
180 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS bookh
I felt Helen put out her hand and touch my arm.
‘ Your brother? ’ Osmund answered him.
‘ I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’
‘ You are Mr. John Osmund, are you not? ’
4 Yes—that is my name.’
‘ I know that you know my brother.’
4 You said your name-? ’
4 Pengelly. Joseph Pengelly.’
4 Oh yes, of course!’ Osmund smiled as
though greatly relieved. ‘ Of course I know your
brother. Do come in, won’t you? ’
Helen passed me and went into the hall.
4 This is my wife; Helen, this is Mr. Pengelly,
whose brother we know.’
If Helen was there I must be there also.
4 And this is a friend of mine, Mr. Gunn-—Dick,
this is Mr. Pengelly.’ We all moved into the
sitting-room. I heard Hench make no sound be¬
hind me, but when we were in the sitting-room 1
saw that the door into the bedroom was closed and
there was no sign of Hench anywhere.
The next thing that I noticed was that during
mv absence someone had put fresh candles into the
holders and that they burnt with a steady, fierce
flame. Everything in the room glittered and
shone. Osmund strode across and pulled he
purple curtains over the window He went to the
triptych of blue Limoges enamel and straightened
it oh the wall. Then with a delightful smile he
turned to the little man who was standing patiently
m t,h Do°h down, Mr. Pengelly. Have something
to drink? Smoke?
CHAP. X
THE CURATE
181
* Thank you.’
4 Whisky and soda? ’
4 Thank you.’ He sat down with maidenly
precision on the sofa, and so mild and clerical did
he seem that I remember that a whisky and soda
seemed a very dashing thing for him to venture
on. But I had read in the past tales and novels
enough to be thoroughly familiar with the con¬
ventional milk-won’t-turn-sour-to-day figure of
the amiable-seeming villain. As it developed,
this dear little man was, before the evening was
over, to show a personality all his own. So he
sat on the sofa and beamed on us. Osmund
stood near the window, Helen sat on a chair
close beside him, I in my corner where I had
already been earlier in the evening.
‘ And what can we do for you, Mr. Pengelly? *
asked Osmund. I shivered suddenly. I don’t
know why. The room was not cold, but there
were draughts everywhere. But as I shivered I
caught a quick, sharp impression of the little man,
so that in a second of intuition I knew that it was
true; this man was Pengelly’s brother. I fancy
now, on looking back, that it was a sudden glint in
the man’s eye as he looked out over the top of his
glasses that told me.
He addressed himself, rather surprisingly, to
Helen.
It is exceedingly good of you, madam, to
bother with me. I will really not detain you
more than a moment. Has my brother been here
this evening? ’
‘ No,’ said Osmund. 4 I haven’t seen him for
182 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
a long time. If you are the brother of the Pengelly
I mean, you will realise that circumstances, past
circumstances-’
‘ Oh, I do understand! ’ the little man broke
in. 4 In fact it is exactly that that made me so shy
of coming here this evening. I am not, I must
tell you, at all intimate with my brother.
* He and I have different ideas. I suppose
most brothers have. But I don’t want to bother
you with that now. I only came because I
happened to have lunch with my brother to-day.
He said that he was coming here to see you and
asked me to pick him up here. It’s odd. You
say that he has never been? ’
‘ Not so far as I know,’ said Osmund in his
frankest manner. ‘ I’ve been out part of the
evening.’
A jolt of apprehension shook me. Osmund
had made a mistake there, I was sure—and I
suddenly knew the little man on the sofa to be as
sinister as his brother. I found that my hands,
hot and damp, were tightly clutching my Quixote.
I laid it down on the table near me. Why had
Osmund been such a fool?
4 Then my brother never told you he was
coming? ’
4 As a matter of fact,’ said Osmund, 4 that s the
queer thing about it. We have none of us seen
your brother for a long time. You can scarcely
wonder at that, Mr. Pengelly, if you know the
facts.’ _ , _ ..
‘ No,’ murmured Mr. Joseph Pengelly.
4 So that naturally you can understand our
CHAP. X
THE CURATE
183
surprise when a day or two ago I had a note from
your brother saying that he wanted to see me on a
matter of business. I appointed this evening for
a meeting, and have been all this time expecting
him. I thought that he would have let me know
if he had not been able to come.’
‘ Very strange—and you’ve had no word at
all? ’
‘ No word at all.’
‘ One would have thought that he would have
telephoned.’
‘ Yes—but my name is not in the telephone-
book.’
‘ Ah, that might account for that. But my
brother prides himself on keeping his engage¬
ments. Are you sure he didn’t call while you
were out? ’
He said he’d come between seven and eight.
I was careful to be in during that time.’
The little man sat up and smoothed his knee,
looking at it reflectively. ‘ Between seven and
eight? He certainly gave me to understand that
it was to be later. He told me to call for him
between nine and ten. ... I wonder what he can
have been up to? ’
I ve no idea,’ said Osmund,smiling pleasantly.
They looked at one another, Osmund and
Joseph Pengelly, and seemed to like one another
very much indeed. You would have said that this
was one of those cases of instant mutual affection.
But I had never throughout this strange evening
suc h a certain conviction of coming danger as
I did at that second when they exchanged glances.
BOOK II
184 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
It suddenly seemed to me that everything was up,
that we were caught like rats, and that nothing
could save us. This little man like a curate knew
everything, and was enjoying his prolongation of
the agony.
My own point of view had now completely
changed. I was no longer afraid of anything that
might happen to myself. All that personal terror
that had driven me just now like a frightened
shadow round the Circus was completely gone. I
was thinking now only of Helen. That kiss we
had exchanged had altered everything for ever.
I know that these lover’s words are conventional
platitudes, but in this instance they were absolutely
true. Everything has been changed for me from
that moment, thank God. But just then the only
thing that I could think of was Helen’s safety. I
didn’t mind very much what happened to Osmund,
Hench and myself (except that, of course, I now
wanted to live as I had never wanted to live before),
but nothing must happen to her. She must not
be dragged into this. That meek, smiling little
man must not touch her; for all his amiability he
seemed to me more dangerous than his brother
had been.
4 It isn’t really of much use that I should
wait.’ .
(He had a precise, meticulous, rather effeminate
way of speaking, and although his voice was more
cultured and his words more carefully chosen,
there was something there that reminded me abso¬
lutely of his brother. They both reminded me of
animals, the other Pengelly of a snake and this
CHAP. X
THE CURATE
185
one of a plump, sleek, amiably vicious cat.) ‘ My
brother can’t be coming now. I do apologise for
troubling you.’
‘ No trouble at all,’ said Osmund most amiably,
gathering his gigantic body together as though he
would usher his visitor out. ‘ Your brother was
detained by something. He will come and see
me another time.’
But the little man did not move. He was
looking at everything, the candles, the curtains,
the triptych, the oddly spotted walls, finally the
secretaire.
. -^ e g ot U P examine it. 4 That is a charming
thing that you have there. I’ve never seen any¬
thing more beautiful. Quite a museum piece.’
I bought it in Spain,’ said Osmund, coming
nearer. His voice had changed. It was weary,
exhausted and dangerous.
Pengelly smiled. His face was shining with
pleasure.
I know nothing about old furniture, but of
course anyone can see that these little ivory panels
are simply delightful. Charming. Charming.’
He touched them with his fingers, the gentlemen
ngntmg a lion, the peacock, the stork, the toreador
and the bull— 4 Charming. Charming.’
He saw my Quixote lying there. He picked it
up and idly turned the pages.
Well, I must be off.’
hen he stiffened. He put the book down
carefully, turned to us, and, looking at Osmund,
held something towards us.
Mr. Osmund—Forgive me. But here is
186 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
a strange coincidence. This is my brother’s
pocket-knife.’
Until that moment I had not seen the knife.
It had been lying there on the table corner ever
since Pengelly (how many centuries ago?) had
taken it out to cut off the end of his cigar.
It was a cheap knife of tortoise-shell with two
mean little blades.
4 Yes—that is my brother’s knife,’ said Pen¬
gelly quietly. Then he looked at Helen.
‘ I’m sure you will tell me, madam. I don’t
want to contradict Mr. Osmund’s statement—
possibly he had his own reasons for saying
what he did—but do tell me—has my brother
been here this evening or no? ’
Before she could reply Osmund had answered:
‘ Yes. Your brother was here. I said what I
did because I thought that my interview with your
brother was between ourselves—no business or
any outsider.’ . . . ....
I could see that his face was rigid with disgust.
Further and further into low, mean, lying relation-
ships was he to be dragged! There was no limit
to the degradations that he must suffer! He had
an impulse, I am sure, at that moment, to throw
all caution to the winds, to out with everything
I thought in fact for a moment that this was what
he was going to do. Helen, I know thought so
also I amid see that her eyes were fixed on me
Her thoughts were with me then as mine were
with her We were, at that crisis, nearer to one
another than at any other time in our earth y iv-
Pengelly sat down again on the sofa, rather o
CHAP. X
THE CURATE
187
the edge of it, I remember, as though he wanted
us to understand that even now, in spite of his
discovery, he was about to depart.
He looked round and smiled on all three of us.
‘ Please,’ he said, ‘ do understand me. I’m
ashamed of the trouble that I’m causing. The
last thing I wanted was to pry into anyone’s
affairs. It is all the sillier because really I have
nothing to do with my brother. I hardly ever see
him. It only happened quite by chance that we
had lunch together to-day, that he said he was
coming here this evening and would I call for
him between nine and ten? We haven’t met
for months. I know that knife, though, because,
as a matter of fact, I gave it to my brother.’
That was a lie. I was positive at once that he
had never given it to his brother. It was not the
kind of knife that this type of man would give to
anyone. And because he was lying about this he
was lying about a number of other things as well.
I saw suddenly that not only had he not done with
us, but that he never would be done with us.
We were all bound together for as long as this
mild-faced curate chose to bind us. Osmund
came forward and stood towering over the little
man on the sofa.
‘ I’m sick and tired of this,’ he said. ‘ Sick
and tired of it. Your brother—if he was your
brother came here and was here for an hour or
»«■ Wh* we talked about is not your business.
1 doubt very seriously whether what you've told
me was the truth, and what I’ve told you until now
was not the truth either. But now you know.
188 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
Your brother was here and went. I suggest that
you go after him.’
Osmund was violent. His voice shook with
suppressed rage. But the little man answered him
with exceeding mildness.
‘ I’m Pengelly’s brother all right, Mr. Osmund.
You have every right to be annoyed with me.
Only you might have told me the truth in the
first place. Many people would think that you
had something to conceal. Why shouldn’t you
acknowledge to me that he had been here? There
was no harm in his coming here, was there? It
is funny that he left his knife behind, though.
He’s always so very careful—too careful some¬
times. But please forgive me. . . .’ He broke
off, got up and then stood close to Osmund.
There was something very comic in their posi¬
tions. The head of the one reached to about the
middle of the waistcoat of the other.
‘ My brother,’ he said gently, ‘ said nothing
about me? ’
‘ Nothing at all.’
4 Left no message? ’
4 No message.’ # f
4 You can tell me nothing more? ’
4 There’s nothing more to tell.’ . .
4 That’s a lie.’ The voice, shrill, piping,
hysterical, came from the bedroom door. Ven-
gelly was killed here—this evening—by all of us
—in this room.’
It was Hench. f
By God, we had forgotten him, all of us
utterly I His raucous snore had been the last that
CHAP* X THE CURATE 189
I had heard of him, and on that snore he had swum,
as it were, completely out of existence save for one
moment. And now he was alive again, just as
though he had been resurrected with a crick of
little brother Pengelly’s finger.
We all turned and looked at him. I remember
that I felt an odd, tired sensation of relief. The
thing was out now. No more lies. And the little
Pengelly could do what he damn well pleased.
We all looked at Hench. He stood in the
doorway, his small round face lit up with the glow
of a fanatical lunatic. He stared beyond us all.
Then he came into the room and plumped his fat
body down beside Pengelly. He put his hand on
Pengelly’s knee.
‘ It’s all right. It’s all right,’ he said con¬
fidentially. ‘ We are not concealing anything.
What I mean to say is that we couldn’t conceal
anything if we wanted to. Your brother came
here this evening and insulted the lot of us. So
we killed him, and Mr. Buller took him away in
a car. We’ve nothing to conceal. You can tell
anyone you like, and if you don’t, I will.*
. was killed—here? ’ Pengelly asked, look¬
ing at Osmund.
Yes, said Hench eagerly. (He was irri¬
tated, I think, because Pengelly wouldn’t look at
bim.) ‘ On this sofa. And we’re glad he’s
dead. He oughtn’t ever to have been alive.’
Osmund, who seemed quite undisturbed, went
to the window, pulled back the curtain, and
ooked out. Then he turned, and said to Helen:
Leave this to us, Helen. You’re not in this.*
190 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS books
She shook her head. ‘ I am in this.’
Pengelly looked at Osmund.
‘ Is this true? ’
* Yes/ Osmund said. ‘ Your brother asked
for it, and he got it.’
Hench broke in:
‘ I know you all wanted to keep it secret, but
you couldn’t. I told you you couldn’t. I know
you think I’ve gone queer in the head, but I
haven’t at all. What I mean to say is that I’m
no queerer in the head than we all are most of the
time. I’ve been queer for years, if it comes to
that, with this hanging over me. And so have
we all. I knew that something was going to
happen. What I mean is that your brother was
a wicked man, Mr. Pengelly, a real wrong ’un,
and he thought everyone was as wicked as himself.
He did really. Well, of course, that couldn’t go
on. Everyone must see that. I mean to say, all
we’ve got to do is to explain to everyone exactly
what happened, and there you are. ... It will be
a relief to everyone that he’s gone. He deserved
what he got. He did really.’ His voice sank
into a kind of mumbling, and he began to bite his
I had meanwhile been watching little Pen¬
gelly, and I saw one thing very clearly—that he
had, all the time, known that something had hap¬
pened to his brother and that the knowledge
didn’t disturb him in the least. His round rosy
face was as innocent of distress or indignation as
a cake of soap. He fixed h.s attention on
Osmund.
THE CURATE
CHAP. X
So—that’s it,’ he said to himself. Then to
Osmund:
‘ Would you tell me—if it’s true—how it hap¬
pened? I have a right to hear, I think.’
I hadn’t been sure up to that moment what line
Osmund would take. He could still deny every¬
thing, declare that Hench was a hysterical lunatic,
and throw Pengelly out of the flat. I was pre¬
pared to aid and abet him if that was his plan.
But it wasn’t. He stood beside Helen, and I saw
him draw a breath of air into his great chest as
though it were a relief to him that at last he should
be done with lying.
‘ Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘ you shall hear what
happened. Afterwards—we’ll see. But this was
just how it was. Your brother—if he was your
brother—wrote to us, as I’ve told you, to ask
whether we would see him. We bore him a
grudge, and we wanted to ask him some questions,
so we invited him to come here. We were in¬
quisitive, rather naturally, but before he came we
had no intention, I assure you, of doing him any
harm. We didn’t like him exactly, but all that
we wanted was to have from him his point of view
about the action he’d taken about us.
I want you to understand,* he went on
gravely, that we had no wish to defend the
ridiculous act that sent us to prison. Please
understand that. We were, all three of us, the
last to defend it, but we wanted to know why Pen¬
gelly had interfered. We had done him, so far
as we could see, no sort of harm. Well, he came.
He came and talked to us.
192 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS booku
4 I don’t want to hurt your fraternal feelings,
Mr. Pengelly, but in a little while it became
apparent that your brother, feeling that he had us
a 1 in his pocket, thought that he could do what he
liked with us. That was insulting. And then,
when he explained clearly his intentions for us—
his idea was that we should associate with him in
certain blackmailing schemes that he had—his
assumption that we’d agree without a murmur
was too much for us. I was responsible for his
death. No one else. I strangled him, and his
body was taken away. Where it is now I haven t
the least idea.’ .
There was a long silence. No one stirred.
At last Joseph Pengelly cleared his throat, took
off his tortoise-shell spectacles and wiped them
with a very clean handkerchief.
He nodded his head. i -u
4 So that’s the end of my dear brother. I will
tell you at once that it is a great relief to me. 1
abS Hde'n gave a little cry. Osmund turned and
l°o^ n J**
my clothes off and made me stand for an hour m a
bucket of icy water. Yes, I loathed him, and I
would have finished him off myself if I deverhad
fhe courage I kept out of his way, of course.
Then he burned up this morning in my rooms
hehind the Museum. Made me give him lunch
told me he was coming here this evening and
fo ced^me to promise that I would come between
Sne and en a P nd see that everything was all right.
CHAP. X
THE CURATE
1 93
He had his suspicions.’ He looked up, giving
Osmund the oddest look of admiration and almost
affection.
‘ Yes. You were the right man for the job,
Mr. Osmund. You’ve got the strongest arms
I’ve ever seen on a man. My brother was wiry,
but he wouldn’t have a dog’s chance.’
I saw Osmund’s eyes shrink with disgust.
‘ Now, then, Mr. Pengelly,’ he said. ‘ You
know the facts. You can do what you like.
There’s a policeman in Shaftesbury Avenue.’
‘ You mean,’ said Joseph Pengelly, ‘ you’d
like me to go. Well, I’ve no intention whatever
of going—not yet. I’m in on this now as well
as yourselves. A partner in crime. I’m one of
you, whether you like it or not.’
‘ You are threatening us, then? ’ said Osmund.
‘ Just as your brother did.’
Pengelly looked at him anxiously, wrinkling
his brow as he might when, had he been a clergy¬
man, he discovered some casuist arguing against the
immortality of the soul.
‘ Threaten? No, no. Please. That is the
last thing. . . . Oh, but do understand mel
We shall never get on if you don’t. If you think
that I’m the least like my brother we shan’t get
on at all. And it’s so important for all of us that
we should.’
He looked pleadingly at Helen, at myself, and
even at Hench, who sat up on the sofa very
straight, breathing through his nostrils, still
snoring gently, although he was now awake.
* Let me try and explain,’ he went on gently,
o
194 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS bookh
gathering us all close around him with a gesture
as though we were his nearest and dearest friends.
‘ It’s like this. I have always hated my brother.
I have always had every reason to do so. When
I was young I believed in God, the goodness of
the human race, general integrity, spring flowers,
and a number of other pretty and evanescent
things. I did really. You must believe me,
because everything else springs from that.
There was no pose or ingenuous affectation about
it. I thought that the world was a fine place for
fine people. It wasn’t from my own observation
that I thought so. Our home was cheap and
shoddy—my father and mother quarrelled all the
time. My brother was a swine, a cad, a bully, a
terror from the year one. It was my brother,
I think, who at that time made me an idealist.
‘ I hated him so that I was determined to be
opposite to him in everything. His was a very
simple case, but I think a very rare one. He
loved evil for its own sake—the Iago pattern.
It was his only fun, to cheat, to ravish, to ruin,
to destroy. I don’t know where he got it from.
We had decent relations—lawyers, doctors, clergy¬
men—good blood in our veins. Some twist in his
brain, perhaps, or a strain of genius gone wrong.
* Anyway, I swore that his faith should not be
mine, and I was idealist, sentimentalist, roman¬
ticist.’ He broke off, and looked at Osmund
‘ I hope that I’m not boring you. This is really
You shall have ten minutes,’ said Osmund
curtly. ‘ Then out you go.’
CHAP. X
THE CURATE
*95
‘ Thanks very much,’ said Pengelly, smiling.
4 It is possible that in ten minutes’ time you won’t
want me to go. In any case life saw that it should
smash my idealism. It set about its job firmly.
I began to wonder whether my brother was not
right. The war came, and I saw clearly that he
was right. This world followed the war, and
now I suppose there is no one with any sense or
observation left in him who does not see that life
is a cold, callous, sneering cheat. I don’t blame
life for that-—not in the least—only now that I
see how things are, I make my plans accordingly.’
It was plain to anyone by this time that little
Pengelly loved the sound of his own voice—the
parsonic and lecturing strain was fixed there
firmly within him. He liked the roll of his
sentences, the choice of his words, the effect on
his hearers—but behind that simple and very
naive pleasure I detected quite clearly an iron
determination and a cold unemotional purpose.
I did not yet see what that purpose was.
I don’t understand,’ said Osmund, 4 what all
this personal biography has to do with us.’
You’ll see in a minute,’ Pengelly assured him.
After the war I endured a succession of uncon¬
genial jobs. I was clerk, secretary, lecturer for
a Pacifist society, a number of things. I hated
them all. I’m lazy by nature, for one thing. I
detest to be under someone else’s orders. I love
to have my own free time. I perceived, of course,
that in this post-war world there was no morality
of any kind left. Everyone was for his own hand,
no one had ideals any more, God had been reduced
BOOK II
196 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
by the scientists to gas and water, the sexes were
sexes no more, everyone was selfish, lazy, and
cruel. These things did not disgust or dis¬
appoint me. I had seen, through watching my
brother for so long, how vile a human being could
be. He was still abnormal because he was so
complete, but he was only an extension of a general
law.
1 Extension of a general law,’ he repeated,
looking round and smiling at his phrase.
4 I didn’t hate him any less though. I hated
and feared him more than ever. Yes, feared
him! It is marvellous to me now to think that
he’s really gone, that I shan’t see his beastly face
again or watch his mean little eyes! I’m not a
coward, on the whole; I’m not in the least afraid
of any of you, for instance. But my brother—he
was something quite by himself!
4 Well, seeing that the world had gone en¬
tirely to pieces, and was continuing in pieces, with
no wish whatever to put itself together again, I
looked around for an easy, conscienceless job that
would give me the freedom and idleness and
security that I needed. You know that m\
brother was a blackmailer. I don t blame him for
that in the least. We are all blackmailers in one
way or another. But what I detested him for
was that he had such horrible relations with his
clients. He bullied them, frightened them,
distressed them! I loathed the way that he
threatened and abused them. You have done
a Rood deed, Mr. Osmund, this evening, tor
many besides myself.’ He looked round, beaming
CHAP. X
THE CURATE
197
upon all of us. ‘ But to continue—as I see that
my ten minutes must be nearly up. I have never
understood why, if you hold some secret that
another human being is willing to pay you for,
you should not have with that human being the
friendliest possible relationship. You are, after
all, bound by a common tie. You have with one
another a rare personal intimacy. You have
made a bargain together, and should be, it seems
to me, on the best of terms. It is that kind of
relationship that I am suggesting that we should
all have together.’
I looked up and across to Osmund. I could
see that he was forcing upon himself every instinct
of control of which he was capable, but that this
new tempest of feeling was very different from the
earlier one. He had passed to a new world of ex¬
perience in the last few hours, and he was now the
aggressor: not any member of the Pengelly family.
His voice was quiet as he asked:
‘ You mean by that? ’
‘ What I mean is simple enough, and I’m sure
that you won’t be offended at it. I have found at
last that for which I have long been searching—a
comfortable resting-place. I like you all so much.
Not only have you done me a tremendous service
in ridding me of my brother, but you are the kind
of people I like. I admire your restraint and
decency and forbearance. I become from this
moment one of you. I keep your secret as you
yourselves will keep it, and in return you, as friends
of mine and well-wishers, supply me with the where¬
withal—enough to keep me happy, tranquil and
BOOK II
198 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
idle as I have always wished to be. In a world
that is certainly beastly, false, mean, without
standards, our relationship will be one of the
few fine, straight things. I shall value our friend¬
ship more than I can say.’
He looked at us all, once again, with an almost
eager and yet rather tired smile of appreciation. I
remember that I realised with an odd little shock of
surprise, because I was confronted with a new sort
of experience, that this man meant all that he
said, that he did like us and respect us, and that
he thought this an admirable plan by which to
continue in our society.
What would Osmund do? Helen rose and
put her hand on his arm. But he needed now no
kind of restraint.
Quietly and with a contempt that penetrated, I
am sure, the hearts of all of us three, he said to
Pengelly:
‘ You mean that—about people, I mean? That
the whole world now is vile, treacherous, false?
‘ Of course I mean it—no one with eyes or ears
can deny it.’
Then Osmund burst out:
‘ You are more evil than your brother—and
more contemptible. Life is superb. Human
beings are magnificent—in courage, in unselfish¬
ness in determination to do right. Here and
there, scattered among men, are wretched creatures
like yourself and your brother. Conditions like
these after-war conditions are fertile for such as
you A few of you can make a grand impression
by your destructiveness, your cynicism. I am
CHAP, X
THE CURATE
199
myself perhaps no better than you. I have been
dragged, step by step, lower down, but at least
before I go I can see that you do no more harm.’
Pengelly got up. He went to Osmund and
caught his arm.
‘ You talk like a book,’ he said, ‘ and I like it—
but you mustn’t exaggerate. If you think the
world a fine place full of noble people, I think it
vile, false, rotten. Why should we quarrel about
that? Perhaps if we are often together, you will
convert me. At least you won’t kill me as you
killed my brother. I’m not worth it. And, after
all, I don t want very much. A few hundreds
a year and to see you sometimes. ... But I will
see you again. I will leave my card. And I will
write. I am quite sure that we can settle every¬
thing satisfactorily.*
He gave Osmund a friendly tap on the arm and
moved to the door.
Then three things happened, and I recollect
them with some confusion. Osmund caught Pen-
ge ly by both arms (but not at all roughly), and
held him I rose and committed the action that
Wk? y ii lfe * fte , rwards 1 have most regretted.
While Hench—but I will come to Hench in a
moment.
. h T atdl , d > “ weI1 as 1 can remember, was
this. I didn t know what it was that Osmund
was going to do. I was afraid lest it should be
another act of violence. I felt in my pocket,
whether with simple absent-mindedness or for
some purpose I don’t know, but I pulled out and
held in my hand, without, I think, knowing that I
200 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
did so, the pair of Helen’s gloves picked up by me
in her bedroom.
Like a silly fool I held them there, not knowing,
my mind intent upon Osmund and his behaviour to
Pengelly. Osmund saw them. His eyes rested
on them, as though, with the sight of them, some
intense and moving conviction had come to him.
Then he looked at me. I returned his gaze,
and my eyes dropped. It was as though we both,
for an instant, swung to some distant isolated place
where we faced one another quite alone—away
from all the world.
I let the gloves fall. They lay at my feet. I
heard him then speaking to Pengelly, who stood
quite passively, without attempting to move.
Osmund said something like this:
‘ You shall have your wish. You shall never
leave me again. You are too dangerous a man
to be let loose on the world any more. This is,
perhaps, the last act of my life—my only decent
one—to prevent you from threatening anyone else.
The third thing that happened was that Hench,
whom once again we had all forgotten, was out of
the door before we realised him.
He looked back at us and cried hysterically:
‘ Don’t you see what you’ve done? We are
in his hands for ever! I’m going to the police—
and you’ll thank me afterwards.’
In all the confusion I saw that here at last was
something for me to do. , > j
I was after him, but not before he had snatched
his ridiculous hat from the coat-rack and was
tumbling down the stairs into the street.
CHAPTER XI
THE SANDWICH BAR
I had intended to catch Hench by the turn of the
stair, but I was stopped by an extraordinary rout of
revellers who were rushing, with shouts and cries
of j°y, past Osmund’s door to a higher floor.
They were revellers of both sexes, and were
dressed, so far as I could see, in worshipful imita¬
tion of the ancient Greeks. I could not tell this
with any certainty, partly because I was myself too
seriously agitated by my own troubles to observe
anything very closely, partly because they wore
over their classical garments coats and wraps,
partly because they were rushing forward with
whoops and shouts up the stairs and round the
corner.
There passed me, at that moment, some dozen,
and these were all gay with cocktails, and were
friends of all the world.
I should have been through them and after
Hench had not a stout middle-aged gentleman
with a face like a red sponge, an eyeglass, and a
niiet of gold on his head, grasped my arm and
said: or /
4 Is your name Escott? ’
201
BOOK II
202 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
No, you silly ass,’ someone shouted from the
stairs. ‘ Of course it isn’t. He’s higher up.’
‘ Come and join us,’ said the stout man,
very solemnly, still grasping my arm. ‘ All wel¬
come. Escott damn good fellow. Everyone wel¬
come.’
I, in an agony of anxiety lest Hench should
escape me, tried to shake myself free.
‘ You look a decent sort. Come along to the
party.’
Then someone called: ‘ Come on, Toby, you
fool,’ so the stout man suddenly jerked himself
into an extraordinary animation and went trem¬
bling up the stairs, with one hand holding on his
gold fillet. From the next floor came a babble
of riotous sound.
But now I was down the stairs, and a moment
later had my hand on Hench’s shoulder.
The contrast was extraordinary. After that
noise and singing the street was like a stream of
underground water. I looked up and saw that
above the lights and the shadowed walls a vast
black cloud was creeping across the sky. The line
of it was marked quite clearly, cutting the pale,
faint night just above the Omnibus Theatre and
stretching over my head beyond me. There was
no wind and it was icily cold.
I noticed the sky because, when I touched
Hench, he was staring upwards. I noticed also
that there was now scarcely anyone about. After
the traffic and confusion of my former plunge into
the Circus this silence was uncanny, but everyone
was now within walls, packed tightly in the
CHAP. XI
THE SANDWICH BAR
theatres and cinemas, eating and drinking in the
hotels and restaurants, talking, laughing, whis¬
pering, love-making, gambling, quarrelling—and
safe from the coming storm.
The cold was bitter. I had snatched this time
my coat and hat, but Hench had only his hat, and
it did not surprise me that he should be shivering.
When I touched his shoulder he turned and
looked at me, not apparently at all astonished that
I was there.
Come on, Hench,’ I said. ‘ Let’s go back.
What’s the use of leaving that fellow there for
Osmund to deal with him? He’ll only do some¬
thing violent. Besides, it isn’t fair—to leave him
in the lurch.’
He continued to shiver, and then suddenly
leaned against me as though he were going to
faint. I put my arm round him. As I have said,
he was a big man. I could feel his stout body
against my hand, trembling with a convulsive
shiver. Then he drew himself away.
That s all right, Mr. Gunn,’ he said very
quietly, as though he were holding with me the
most ordinary conversation about nothing. ‘ We’ll
go back^ in a minute, but we’ll take a policeman
with us. His large soup-plate eyes searched my
face with an anxious, hapless, friendly earnestness.
What I mean to say is that it’s much the wisest
thing that we can do. You must see that your¬
self. You’re a sensible man, Mr. Gunn, and you
must see it’s the only thing we can do. It would
be hopeless to let that devil have a hold on us.
Much better we should all hang. What I mean
BOOK II
204 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
is that I said you couldn’t get rid of that devil by
killing him, and there you see I’m right. He’s
turned up again, just as I said he would. Much
better to end it once and for all, and as to hang¬
ing, I don’t mind being hanged now. What I
mean is, now Clara is dead I’d just as soon be
dead too. Much better for us to tell the authori¬
ties. It is really, Mr. Gunn—you must see that
yourself.’
To my horror he broke from me. A little
man, his head sunk in his upturned collar, was
passing us quickly, whistling. Hench caught his
arm.
The little man started back and tried to shake
Hench off. It must have been alarming enough
when you were walking along, quietly whistling,
to have your collar caught by a complete stranger
at the corner of Piccadilly Circus at that time of
the evening. And you must remember that Hench
looked odd enough with his round, white face like
a turnip-lantern and no coat. I fancy, too, that-
that heavy black cloud with its edge of steel and
its threat of impending storm gave an unnatural
gleam to everything, to the lamps and the flashing
sky-signs and the faces of passing men.
‘ Here! What’s the matter?’ the little man
cried •
‘ I beg your pardon,’ said Hench. But
there’s a murder just been committed—I want to
find a policeman. ... , , . r
‘ Murder 1 ’ said the little man, breaking free
from Hcnch’s hand. Then he caught s.ght of
me. He found me reassuring. I was smiling.
chap. xr THE SANDWICH BAR
205
I conveyed to him that Hench had been festivity¬
making.
‘ Oh, I see.’ He smiled with relief. ‘ You
go along with your friend, old cock,’ he said,
patting Hench on the shoulder. ‘ Have a snooze
and forget your murder.’
‘ But it’s true! ’ Hench protested. ‘ I swear
it is. I m not drunk. What I mean to say, I’m
as sober as you are. But I’ve killed someone and
I must tell the police.’
. ‘ Killed twenty, I dare say,’ said the little man
in kindly fashion. ‘ But I tell you what—you’ll
catch your death of cold standing about on a night
like this without a coat. Why don’t you take
him home and let him sleep it off? ’ he asked me
quite indignantly.
I m taking him home,’ I answered. 4 Only
he s got this sudden craze for a policeman.’
The little man looked round him. A ghastly
rear possessed me lest he should suddenly see one.
ihen we would be in a hole! But there was no
policeman in sight save the traffic controller at
the end of Shaftesbury Avenue, who, even as I
looked, moved away out of sight.
Well, I must be getting on. Late, as it is.
Z% l0n & ,. For get your murder, Cocky.’ He went
off, whistling.
I caught Hench by the arm and took him
a " ot 1 he f word into the bar of the adjacent
Monte C a rl°. Whatever was going to happen
it should be out of the way of that cutting wind.
The bar of the ‘ Monte Carlo ’ was practically
deserted. We sat at a little table next the wall.
206 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS book h
and of the short, stout waiter I ordered two large
cups of coffee. (You may not know it, but you
can order coffee in the bar of the ‘ Monte Carlo,’
and it is the very best in London.)
Two nondescripts were hanging over the bar
like rather shabby serpents, and one old man with
an entirely white beard was seated at a table near
us reading a Standard —that was all our company.
I took stock of the situation. This was in
many ways the most perilous and also the most
exasperating moment of the whole adventure.
Here I was tied to this bloody imbecile. No
other words for it. Hench was idiotic, he was
crazy, and yet I felt for him a deep protective
kindliness. He had suffered during these last
years more than any of us. He had none of
Buller’s stolidity, of Osmund’s fantasy, of my
sentimentality, to pull him through. He was just
the plain, ordinary man in the street who had been
involved in a burglary, imprisonment, and murder
through very little fault of his own, and had no
capacity at all for dealing with these various situa¬
tions. He was now as nearly off his head as to
make no matter; he was longing to shout his news
to all the world, and one whisper in a serious ear
would plunge us all into quite irretrievable dis¬
aster— n ot only Osmund, myself and Buller, bu
also Helen. .
You must remember that at this moment, in
addition to my nervousness about my situation
there was a racking, ceaseless anxiety about the
events in the flat almost exactly above where I
was sitting. Was Osmund murdering the second
CHAP. XI
THE SANDWICH BAR
Pengelly? Was he submitting to a gentle system
of blackmail? What part was Helen playing?
4 You see,’ said Hench quite suddenly to the
waiter who brought him his coffee, 4 there’s been
a man killed upstairs and I want to fetch the
police in.’
This waiter was very odd in appearance, be¬
cause he had one of the very baldest heads that I
have ever seen, bald as the shining globe, with
just one black gleaming hair set stickily down its
centre. But he had hair everywhere else. He
had two of the bushiest black eyebrows seen any¬
where; black hair sprouted from his ears and his
nostrils. I m sure that on his Saturday bath-
night he would be mistaken by his youngest son
for the bear from the circus. He was fat, round,
and perspired at every pore.
He paid no attention at all to Hench’s remark.
Sorry, sir, he said, 4 Very busy to-night,’ and
hurried away. Hench looked at me in a kind of
despair.
They won t listen,’ he said, 4 they won’t be¬
lieve me. They know that he is not really dead.’
, put my hand out and touched his arm.
Look here, Hench,’ I said, 4 drink your coffee
and then attend to me.’
He was looking at the old man so recently
absorbed in the Evening Standard. He stared at
him with a fixed and concentrated gaze. Then he
half rose from his chair. My hand was on his
sleeve like a vice. I was so exasperated, nervous
and worried that I could have hit him in the face.
Now look here, Hench,’ and I saw from the
208 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
quick apprehension in his face that he realised
from my tone that at last I meant what I said, ‘ I’m
about sick of this. I’ve been more patient with
you than you’re worth. Try and think of someone
besides yourself. If one of us plays the ass now it
lets the whole lot of us in. Anything can happen
at any moment—Buller be arrested—the body
found—Pengelly’s brother split to the police—
Osmund do something crazy. How is it going
to help anybody if you tell everybody about it? ’
I saw that he was preparing to babble, so I just
closed my hand the harder on his soft, fat arm, and
then he sat there, staring at me, his mouth half
open and what looked like tears welling apparently
into his eyes and back again. I went on, dropping
my voice because I saw that the old man had put
down his paper and was looking in our direction.
« I know just how you feel and I understand
your feeling as you do, but it’s cowardice to run
away from the thing as you’re running away from
it. Don’t you see that? Pengelly’s dead enough.
You didn’t cart him down three flights of stairs
as I did. You can take my word for it that he s
dead. Well, then, he’s not only dead but he s
rightly dead. There never was such a dirty swine.
Think of all the thousands of people that Osmund s
made happy by breaking his neck. What good is
k ling P to 7 do any of them if we tell everyone we
meet? Why should Pengelly’s brother turning up
worry you so? Osmund will be able to deal with
him all-right. He won’t stand being blackmailed
he rest of his life. So that needn’t frighten
you. Here, drink your coffee and come back with
CHAP. XI
THE SANDWICH BAR
209
me to the flat. Pengelly’s brother will have gone.
We can talk things over quietly. Pull yourself
together, man. Remember we’re all in it and
must look after one another.’
I thought that I had made some impression
on him. Perhaps I had. But I shall never be
sure, because he broke out now in quite a different
direction. Leaning closer to me and breathing
right into my face (his breath, I shall always re¬
member, was scented ever so faintly with pepper¬
mint), in a low voice he explained to me that he
realised that I was his friend ; he was very grateful.
He knew that Pengelly was a vile beast, but it
was of our souls that he was really thinking. It
was of everyone’s souls, in fact, that he was think¬
ing, and this horrible affair of to-night had only
brought matters to a crisis.
F or the last year or two Clara, his dear de¬
parted Clara, had been in constant communica¬
tion with him, urging him to go out into the
market-place, gather the people about him and
ten them of the perils that lay ahead of them, the
nhnV r Te hlng l ° Potion and ignorant of its
urn. The world, vicious, heedless. . . . His
voice was rising, the old man was now most
definitely interested; the bald and hairy waiter,
his bow-legs under their apron widely planted,
done 1Stemng * Something must instantly be
Hench, right,’ I interrupted him. ‘ I
1 g ,; 1 *S ree with every word you say. But
look here, how will this do? Come with me now
Trust me. And I’ll find someone to whom you
210 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS book »
can tell everything. . . . How will that do for
you? I’ll get you the very man—only we must
lose no time. You realise how important that is—
that we should lose no time.’
‘ I do, I do,’ he agreed eagerly. ‘ You are
absolutely right, Mr. Gunn. What I mean is that
we’ve wasted far too much time as it is. You are
entirely right.’ He got up and stood there
trembling with excitement. I can see him now,
such a striking figure with his small pale head
and his large flabby body; you could see the joints
in him where he was fastened together, a ridge
here, a bundle of fat, a ridge again—rather as a
Jack-in-the-box looks, sprung from his imprison¬
ment. That was what Hench resembled now,
standing upright with his startled sightless eyes.
But we were causing altogether too eager an
attention. The waiter was possibly reconsidering
those strange words of Hench that at first he had
disregarded. I called him over to me and paid
the little bill.
‘ Awfully cold night,’ I said genially. We 11 be
having more snow.’ ,
‘ Yes,’ he said, not taking his eyes from Hench.
‘ Has the gentleman no coat? ’
‘ We came in from next door, I remarked
easily, ‘ for a cup of coffee. We’re going back
again.’
‘ Yes,’ said the waiter.
•Excellent coffee,’ 1 added; no better in
L ° n i d g n ave him far too large a tip and hurried
Hench away.
CHAP. XI
THE SANDWICH BAR
21 I
‘ Who are we going to? ’ asked Hench, now
that we were in the street again. Before I could
answer I saw that he was staring at a gigantic
policeman who, not more than five yards from us,
was commanding the traffic at the end of Shaftes¬
bury Avenue.
I think that of all the perilous moments of that
evening, looking back now across time, I can
assert that this was the most perilous. I was
affected possibly by the icy little wind that was
now blowing about us, by the black massive cloud
that covered now the entire sky, by the extra¬
ordinary silence, so that no one seemed to be
speaking and even the buses and the few cars and
taxis were moving in perfect stillness. That hush
does drop every once and again over the London
traffic, and at this moment it had enveloped the
whole of Piccadilly Circus.
I believe that in the end it was the silence that
saved me, that even Hench was conscious of it
and suffered himself to be led by me rather than
address that policeman. But it was a very near
thing, a very near thing indeed.
Meanwhile, as I crossed the street with him, I
realised that I had to find someone and find him
speedily.
First of all, however, someone found us. We
were on the edge of the pavement, about to cross
the completely deserted Circus, from the centre of
which the red lamps of the excavations winked at
us with a sinister glow under the black sky, when
I r <j allse d that someone had slunk up to our side
and there was a voice in my ear saying: ‘ Good
212 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS bookh
evening, gentlemen. Isn’t there something you
would like to see? Some way I can be of use? ’
I turned and saw beside me a long lanky
creature dressed in shiny black and, apparently, a
cricket shirt open at the neck. He had a white
bony face, long like a nut-cracker, and his upper
lin was streaked with a moustache so thin, so wet,
and so black that it looked like a thread of grease
Pai Thad in my time, passed hours of pleasure,
profit and pain with the night-guides of most
important cities, but never before had I en¬
countered one in London. I had thought, indeed,
that London was free of them. I was to discover
my ‘^o, a th e anks,’ I said brusquely, ‘ you can’t show
anything, and I’m busy.’ - .,
4 I know you’re busy,’ he said mournfully;
■ it’s always the same. No one in London ever
wants to see anything. What I left Pans for I
can't imagine. You mightn’t believe me, he wen
on with a gulping sound, as though he found it
difficult to swallow, ‘ but I actually came ac
London because I was homesick. I was doing a
fine trade in Paris, but Pm English after all, and
it seemed rotten somehow doing nothing for the
Old Country. I know there’s people run her down
but after all one’s country is one s country. That
Wh He was gradually edging us away round the
awards Regent Street, and I at once per
corner toward* Kcgc ^ because of the stout
ceived the rea *° b Avenue. I saw then
policeman in bnariesuu /
me
CHAP. XI
THE SANDWICH BAR
213
another thing—that Hench’s gaze was eagerly
fixed upon our new friend. He also quickly dis¬
covered this.
‘ What about you, sir? ’ he asked Hench in a
voice that was poignant with an eager and not
altogether unpleasant pathos. ‘ Can’t I show you
something? I’m sure there’s a house or two you’d
like to visit.’ He dropped his voice. I caught
the words: ‘ Really cheap considering—no hanky-
panky . . . the genuine article.’
Hench, his large eyes glittering, turned to him
eagerly: 4 I should like very much to have a talk,’
he said. 4 I’ll put my case to you. What I mean
is there’s no time to lose—no time at all.’
The gentleman turned to me. ‘ It’s cold
standing about here,’ he said. His voice had
become now very confidential. 4 And your
friend’s without a coat. What about a drink? Or,
to tell you the truth, I missed my meal this evening.
Too busy to think about it. There’s a sandwich
bar close by. What do you say? ’
I was for the moment resigned. Had I only
dared to leave Hench I would have turned and
run back up those now familiar stairs again and
stood by Helen’s side to the very end—or the
very beginning, whichever it might be—but my
duty, for all our sakes, was first by Hench, as I
very well knew. So we all three moved across the
Circus.
Storm blowing up,’ said the gentleman,
throwing a glance over his shoulder back to the
policeman. Yes, that was true. A terrible storm.
Not only was the cold bitter, but everything now
BOOK II
214 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
seemed to shiver under it, the lights on the walls,
the doorways and windows, the few figures moving
hastily on their private purposes, the cars and
omnibuses.
The golden goblet, glittering intensely now
under the ebon sky, trembled as it spouted its
crimson liquor.
The gentleman was confidential. 4 The curse
of my country,’ he continued, becoming with
every word more confidential, his teeth chattering
a little with the cold, 4 is its lack of curiosity.
Why, I ask you, should the people of London be
the only people in the world who have no curiosity
in anything? Why, if you were to walk stark
naked down Piccadilly at midday no one would
evince the slightest interest.’
He used words like 4 evince ’ with a lingering,
almost sensual pleasure.
‘ If,’ I answered priggishly—you must re¬
member that I was by this time almost crazy with
anxiety and scarcely knew what I was saying
4 they show no curiosity about the beastly things
you want to show them, I’m glad of it.’
4 Come now, come now ’ (he reproached me
as though I were his long-lost brother), ‘ don t be
so punctilious. What I say is that the thing we
have to learn in this world is broad-mindedness
Human nature is human nature. Let us eat and
drink for to-morrow we die. (He reminded
me, most adversely, of my beloved Sancho Panza
in his devotion to comforting aphorisms.)
« Now I consider that I am completely broad¬
minded. My profession, I must acknowledge,
CHAP. XI
THE SANDWICH BAR
21 5
has made me so. Nothing in the world can
shock me. I contravene all shockable possi¬
bilities. Shock me! You can’t! ’
I grimly wondered whether that were true.
In a few moments I should be able to test him.
Hench was feverishly hurrying us along. We
turned up Jermyn Street in the direction of St.
James’s Street, and an instant later were beside
the dimly lit little passage that did duty for a
sandwich bar.
We could hear from where we stood the
murmur of the Circus that was indeed only two
minutes away, and quite suddenly out of the very
heart of it I caught, or fancied that I caught, the
shrill metallic cry of a newspaper boy. The word
that I seemed to hear was ‘ Murder,’ but I could
not be sure of it, and, mingled with it, was an odd
little wind that now, presaging the storm, whistled
in and out of the traffic, blowing up against the
window opposite that was filled with round-faced
staring clocks, and wandering tittering away to
the rear portions of the Popular Caf<£ that exuded
always so strange a mixture of roasting meats and
jazz music, coming back again to my feet, creeping
like a nest of chilly spiders between my trouser-
leg and the bare skin, and carrying always that
hard shrill tone of the newspaper vendor. Was
it‘Murder’?
. ^ was °nly for a moment that I listened, but
into that moment everything seemed to be
c ™wded—the first Pengelly hanging in mid-air,
the body stumbling against the stairway, Helen’s
kiss, the soft voice of the second Pengelly.
2 16 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
Such an imminence of hopeless ruin and dis¬
aster came to me at that moment, and I remember
that only an urgent passionate thought of Helen
prevented my taking to my heels and running for
my life. . . .
But I heard again that polite, rather pathetic,
voice in my ear — 4 Ham or tongue? ’ he asked. I
found that I was standing right up against the
counter. It was a lively, bright little place, and
liveliest and brightest of all was our host, who
had a rosy face, a merry eye, a mountainous
stomach, all straight from Dickens. The little
alley was so narrow that there was small room for
his wares. Nevertheless, he managed admirably.
Every kind of bright tin—biscuits, jams, pre¬
served fruits—glittered from the shelf that ran
the full length of the wall, and mingled with the
tins were pictures of charming ladies, ladies of an
earlier and a brighter day—Miss Gabrielle Ray,
Miss Marie Studholme; and, in pride of place,
dominating the whole with the cock of his hat
and the wink of his gaily impertinent eye, no less
a person than Lord Beatty himself. From two
bi<7 urns steamed the fragrance of tea and coffee,
and under glass was a collection of almost museum
value, herrings embraced by slices of hard-boiled
egg, glistening sardines, iridescent ham, and piles
of sponge-cakes. .
We were alone with all this glory save for our
splendid host, and he was busied, not so much
with his more obvious duty as with the writing of
a letter.
We had our coffee, our
sandwiches, and were
chap.xi THE SANDWICH BAR 217
moving off to a small table squeezed into the only
corner that the place possessed, when he pushed
his red face over the counter and in a husky
whisper asked us: 1
‘ ’ 0w do yer spell “ different ’’? ’
‘ J'fg your pardon? ' asked the gentleman.
, W hat 1 mean is—'as it two heffs or one? '
, ^ as two >’ Sa ^ ^e gentleman courteously,
and only one R.* 7
again^ 131 ^ 8 ’ Sa * d ° Ur b ° St> anc ^ disappeared
We sat down at our little table, and were
torced to S!t very close together. I could feel
ench s thigh trembling against my hand. The
S^, an was extremely hungry. He ate his
week? r\ aS ^ had becn starvin &
tion * I ^ ad but L late, y been m y own posi¬
tion. 1 suffered with him. 1
fi r] * 1 * across the little table,
Hench* ^ m ° St COnfidentiaI manner, said to
is voifnff 1 n °t W Wh I l Can 1 ShOW >’ 0u? The night
IS young. I can demonstrate_* 6
now hi 1 ha ‘ h< V C °t H demonstrate will never
lend y b n ° Wn> f ° r Hench interrupted him vio-
and are ,-'! Ve d° in g here,’ he cried, ‘ eating
are s’ l, 1 ' 1 ®’ t ^ ,S ' ? * don’t know who you
slightest ° y ° U - are doesn,t matter in the
idlv I ’ . his town in which we are sitting so
d y is going to hell. The devil is abroad, and
fl ‘me that someone cried a warning. What I
n is that a murder’s been committed to-night,
2 18 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS bookh
not five minutes away from here, and I can’t get
anyone to take steps about it. Let us lose no
time. Come with me to the nearest policeman.
Until this thing is declared openly there’ll be no
peace.’
‘ Nearest policeman? ’ said the gentleman.
‘ Not likely. They are no friends of mine, I’m
sorry to say—narrowest-minded men in London.
Want to stop everyone’s fun. . . . What does
he mean,’ he asked, turning to me, * about a
murder? What’s the matter with him? ’
It was an impasse. If I denied Hench he
would as likely as not burst into a scream, run
shouting into the Circus, find a policeman, and
bring the whole catastrophe tumbling about us.
• Ask him about it,’ I said, and at the same time
tried to convey to him that Hench, whether
through drink or lunacy, was not to be trusted
But the gentleman’s attention was already
drifting. He perceived that neither Hench nor
I were likely clients; he had little time to lose and
money to make. His <=ye w asjibeady , on ,V
street He wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand and rose. ‘ Thanks, gentlemen, he said,
touching his hat, 4 for your generosity. One day
I trust I may reciprocate. Meanwhile— business,
yOU He n0 bowe b d US p n o e nt;iy and moved towards the
exit The red-faced host stopped him.
• ’Arf a mo’,’ he said. ‘ ’Ow would you spell
«« mutton ”—with a E or a ho?
‘ Always with an O,’ said the gentleman, and
vanished.
chap.XI THE SANDWICH BAR 219
After that followed pandemonium. I can
trace only dimly the exact sequence of events. I
must give them to you, I fear, in a kind of strange
confusion, mingled with the odour of coffee and
ham, the glitter of shining tins, and the cock of
Lord Beatty’s cap.
The little alley seemed to be suddenly crowded.
Certain figures stand out very clearly in my mind:
a chauffeur, thick-set and cocky, with that appear¬
ance given to all mechanics of a certain superiority
t° human beings (who are—alas—poor things,
so fallible beside machinery); a small page-boy
P ac ked into a sky-blue uniform shiny
with buttons; and a rather shabby taxi-driver who
had a muffler round his throat, and a small, rather
pathetic, baby face with red watery eyes. All
these figures I remember, and I recollect, too,
that I noticed, even in the middle of my agitation,
, e S y ut at the same time self-assertive glances
h0 L 5 tile chauffeur by the taxi-man.
here were there also a woman and an old man
r crowd, ng about the bar, raising the round
rough cups of tea and coffee solemnly to their lips
gulping chunks of sandwich, all very friendly,
SDeakin co l lr J eo J J ? I y the time of day, everyone
speaking of the bitter cold.
Into this warm social friendliness Hench burst,
on y ^ enc h, but all the alarm, discomfort,
a cfof- error , that thongs to a human being who is in
that t? n m hu . man > who is battling for life in a sea
mat tumbles just beyond human shores.
indiffV SCen f. once that with the gentleman’s
fference to his story burst the last bar to his
220 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
restraint. What was this life into which he had
come, a life so low, degenerate, altogether lost,
that it cared nothing for murder, nothing for
conscience, nothing for the terror and loneliness
of Hench’s own soul? I made one last effort to
quieten him. His eyes were rolling in his small
round head, his hands clenching and unclenching.
4 Steady, Hench, steady,’ I whispered, putting
my hand again on his arm. 4 Don’t you see it s
as I said? Come back to the flat. You can do
nothing here. See first what Osmund has to say.
Take his advice-’
He looked at me, and I saw that he had over¬
stepped the boundary. He was mad crazed.
He saw men like trees walking, he felt God s
presence at his elbow, he would catch beneath his
feet the tremble of the earth as it paused before
it slipped down to the flaming hell that awaited
it. He did not know any longer who I was, nor
would he have cared had he known. We were
all lost together.
He pushed over his coffee-cup as he rose and
it fell on the floor. The sound of the breaking
china turned every eye in our direction, tie
tumbled into the middle of them. I can give
you no orderly picture of what followed,
shut my eyes and look back I see Hench s tall
stout, misshapen body towering ^ong them 1
hear his funny high cracked voice: The end£ F
'to!*?good-natured
CHAP. XI
THE SANDWICH BAR
221
remonstrance: ‘ ’Ere now, mind the china.
Wot’s the matter with the gentleman? . . .
All right ... all right . . the shrill half-
frightened laugh of some woman, and then out
of the struggling forms (for Hench had the
taxi-man by the collar and someone else had
Hench by the trousers) I can see the solid, thick,
resolute figure of the chauffeur pushing into the
middle of them, and can hear his quiet contempt¬
uous tones:
‘ Can’t you let the gentleman alone? It’s all
right, sir. No one’s going to hurt you; not while
I’m about. Come along into the fresh air. That
will put you right.’
By now I had myself, I suppose, taken some
step, but try as I may, I cannot see myself in
that scene. I know, however, that Hench, his
eyes blazing with a mad mixture of ecstasy and
anger, cried to me as though I were hundreds of
miles away from him: ‘ I will be heard ... I
will be heard. This is the end. . . . There is
no death any more, only punishment. You may
murder but you cannot kill. . . . We are all
lost. . . .»
Yes, yes,’ said the taxi-man in contemptuous
comfort, ‘ of course we are.’ Then turning to
h e ’s your friend, sir, we’d better get him
oft quietly. Something’s gone to his head.’ I
couldn t tell him that Hench thought that he
had committed a murder and was mad with ex¬
asperation because no one would believe that
he had.
Indeed, I could tell him nothing, for a moment
222 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
later Hench had broken from all of us and had run
out into the street.
I followed him. He paused at the corner of
Jermyn Street, then started to cross, at a sharp trot,
the Circus. He was nearly knocked over by an
omnibus which, in its turn, stopped my own pro¬
gress. When I was clear again I saw that he was
moving straight for the Trafalgar Theatre, most
brilliantly lit against the black sky with the glitter¬
ing words: ‘ The Centre of the World. . . .’
I was aware of a number of things: that the
wind was rising in a fury, that flakes of snow were
licking my cheek, and then, even as I saw Hench
tumble into the pit entrance of the theatre, an
astonishing thing occurred.
A figure, whom I saw to be little Pengelly, also
running, vanished into the black orifice of the
gallery entrance, and, a moment later, almost
touching me but not seeing me, followed like
dream figures Osmund and Helen. I would have
called their names, but before I could speak they
too had vanished into the gallery entrance. .
Hench, Pengelly, Helen, Osmund, mechanical
figures propelled by the storm. . . .
After an instant’s hesitation I also slipped up
the dark gallery stairs.
CHAPTER XII
AFFIRMERS: DENIERS
I must now, before I give you the strange climax
of this whole affair—figures like the figures of a
dream rushing before the wind into the black
mouth of the theatre blazing with light—write as
honest an account as I may of the only scenes in
this whole story of which I was not an eye-witness.
I said in the beginning that there was one such
account to be given of necessity at second hand.
Here it is, and the authority for it is Helen.
Naturally enough, Helen and I have discussed
the events that occurred between my running out
of the flat after Hench and my encountering them
as they disappeared into the gallery entrance of the
Trafalgar Theatre.
They were, from certain points of view, themost
important events of the whole affair, and it is lucky
that it was Helen rather than I who was witness of
them, because Osmund was their central figure,
and she knew Osmund as I could never know him.
Know Osmund? It must be apparent to any
reader of this narrative that I never knew him at
a " * rom first to last he was a mystery to me.
So possibly he was to Helen, but he was a
223
BOOK II
224 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
mystery with whom she had shared every intimacy.
She had held him in her arms, his head on her
breast, not loving him, but having a great pity and
tenderness for him; she had waited those years for
him while he was in prison, cheering, comforting
him; she had shared his exile in Spain with him,
playing with him (for in the earlier time he was
often merry and childlike, untroubled as a baby),
watching despair and loneliness and disappoint¬
ment grow and grow with him—and, most inti¬
mate thing of all, realising increasingly in herself
that she did not love him, that she had never loved
him, that the best of her feeling for him was
maternal and loyal, loyalty for the misfortunes that
she had shared with him, and that not only did
she not love him, but she was increasingly afraid
of him. __
He bored her, too, sometimes dreadfully. He
had, once and again, all the boringness of the mono¬
maniac— going over his case monotonously,
wondering eternally what had persuaded himito that
mad act of house-breaking, the act from which a
the evil after-consequences had sprung. 1 coula
see them, easily enough, sitting in some sun-
scorched spot of Segovia or Toledo, he digging up
his ‘ case ’ as a dog digs up a bone, she staring up
at the burning sky and wondering when would it
ever end.
For Helen was neither a very patient nor a very
sentimental woman, certainly not sentimental,
have always been twice as sentimental as she, and
am not really sentimental as Englishmen go. She
has told me since that during the weeks before this
chap.xii AFFIRMERS: DENIERS 225
final adventure of Pengelly’s death she had been
making up her mind to the fact that she could
not endure the situation any longer, that she must
go away and leave Osmund both for her sake and
his own. In her heart she had known for a long,
long time that she loved me, and only me, but it
was not because she had any thought or any hope
of ever seeing me again that she was going away.
No, simply that she was sick to death of Osmund,
that her boredom with him had killed at last her
maternal care of him.
She was in many ways a hard woman. Life
had made her so, as it had made many English¬
women of her day. The war had seemed to her
so awful, so bloody and unnecessary and wasteful,
that sh e was resoJufdy determined never to be
r> ea ^ y *fr a S a m. Or she thought she was.
tfut tenderness would keep breaking in. My
re urn broke up all the hardness; the very
sense th a t she had shown me that she loved me
roused in her again a great tenderness for Osmund,
to ^ ee through his troubles, to pro-
tcct him, so far as she might, from further evil.
tiiint f the ev,! came * She was never quite , 1
3 " eco 1 ver the shock of seeing Pen-
g lly s body there on the sofa. She was not, you
O aS , modern a woman as she pretended.
raf^H K d s _ ac k no wledgement of the murder sepa-
done !!, er K fl ? m u hl f f ° r CVer * lt would not have
since th, Ha l C J° Ved him * She has often said
PenL ^ u Hat lf U Had been 1 who had kilIed
had ki*llL S u- e Would bave fr k as though she also
him, and would have been bound to me
Q
226 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS book»
only the closer. But it was that sight of Pengelly’s
body on the sofa that showed her once and for all
that she had no kinship with Osmund whatever,
that he repelled and terrified her. Nevertheless,
with all that consciousness of distance, she felt a
pitying tenderness for him too—pitying at first,
and then he seemed to grow before her eyes into a
gio-antic stature, to stand out a figure almost of the
old Sagas, like Siegmund when he has heard from
Brunnhilde of his doom, going almost gladly to¬
wards it because he knows so definitely that there
is no longer any hope for him.
He was, in this last hour, finer and of greater
stature than he had ever been before. He went
from her, but he went grandly.
Our recognition of one another, brief though
it was, gave her a conviction of happiness that
none of the other troubles could take from her
But she was sure, as she has often told me . tba
that love, hers and mine, was fated to end exactly
then when it was declared. Those ."bedroom
changed so hurriedly between us the
were all that were to be P erI ™ ttel ^ , ,
remembered that through the whole * “ e
that now followed she was convmced that she had
leen Z for the last time. She even pushed me
from her mind with that effort of supreme con-
* that was one of her finest attributes,
centratio nerve and energy that she
to dealing with the situation that was in front
Tnd ^helping Osmund as best she might,
iim, gigantic,
like an allegory.
chap, xir AFFIRMERS: DENIERS 227
Then with the entrance of little Pengelly into
the scene a new element came to her, an element
of drama, as though, she afterwards told me, she
were acting in the second act of a play, a play that
she herself was at the same time writing, and it
was up to her to see what the third act should be—
not only up to her—up to Osmund and Pengelly
as well.
So you may say that every conceivable element
forces of love, jealousy, fear, honour, restraint,
pathos, pity, theatrical unreality, and an absolute
realism—were working together in her breast at
that moment when Hench left the flat and I, after
exchanging that glance with Osmund, followed
him.
Many times she has enacted the events of the
following scene for me, and it is her version of the
dialogue between them that I now give.
When the door had closed behind Hench and
myself, Osmund turned to her and said one
thing:
‘ So Gunn keeps your gloves for you/ She
ad not the slightest idea of his meaning, was not
sure that she had caught the words rightly, for
Osmund turned at once from her and said to
Pengelly j Well, they are gone, and now we can
attend to our own business.’
Pengelly answered, smiling, in his mild clergy¬
man s voice:
t u < * T J hat S T ery sim P Ie * I’ve told you how I feel.
I hated my brother. I’m glad you removed him.
I want to be your friend—I admire you—and
I suggest, the world being as rotten as it is.
228 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS bookh
that you should generously provide me with
five hundred pounds a year in quarterly instal¬
ments/
Helen says that it was now that she was aware
that something besides the other Pengelly’s death
had happened to Osmund. She did not know at
that moment what it was. She was to learn very
shortly. But what she realised without knowing
any facts was that Osmund had removed himself
from her, that he had done with her and all his life
with her completely. He stood there, his great
bulk swaying ever so slightly, staring at her,
exactly as though he were seeing her for the last
time and were determined to memorise every part
of her. And she, aware of that, stood tautly like
a soldier on duty, erect, facing him. She felt as
though she were saying to him: Yes, this is
farewell. Whatever the outcome or these events,
we at least are never to be together again.’
The triptych glowed in its lovely colour under
the golden candle-light behind him, and he was
part of the triptych and the triptych part of him.
But all he said was: ‘ Helen, won t you leave
us alone a little? We want to talk.’ t
‘ No,’ she answered, smiling into his eyes, 1 m
Par * But*"T* will7°said g little Pengelly, suddenly
r i. f u P door With one stride Osmund was
onto him and held him as he had done five minutes
before. With the grip of one hand he held him,
the ? Yo/don’Trealise yet,' he said, standing right
over him, ‘ that you are never going to leave me
chap. xii AFFIRMERS: DENIERS 229
again. I told you so just now, but you didn’t
believe me. I’m finished and you’re finished too.’
4 I see,’ said Pengelly quietly. ‘ You are going
to murder me as you did my brother? ’
The little man showed no sort of alarm—very
gentle and mild, but quite without fear.
‘ No,’ Osmund said, 4 not that. I don’t know
how this is going to end. The police may arrive
at any moment, for one thing, and then we shall
both have to act quickly. Or no one may come,
and we shall be here all night and go off together
in the morning.’
‘ Go off—where? ’ asked Pengelly.
I don’t know—over the edge—deep down.
Where no one can hear you deny anything ever
again.’
‘ Then you do intend to kill me? *
We go together,’ Osmund repeated. ‘ You
the denier, and I the affirmer. You stand for the
rest, you see—all the other rotten traitors who
insult life by sneering at it and spit at human
^ )ein 1 ?^‘. I shall have done one thing at least with
my life in taking you with me.’
It was then that Helen realised that Osmund
had left all of us and the world to which we be¬
longed. You may call it insanity if you like. I
don t know. It is simply an alteration of values,
when physical^ life ceases to matter, when ideas
change their size, and when perhaps truths, real
truths, are for the first time perceived.
But Helen, who was always exasperated by
nonsense and pretensions, and the use of capital
letters when ordinary ones would do, interrupted.
BOOK II
230 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
‘ Please, John, don’t waste time. I don’t know
what you mean, and you don’t know yourself. The
situation is quite simple. This gentleman here
thinks he has a hold over us and is proposing to
blackmail us. I suggest that you let him go and
allow him to do whatever he pleases. Tell the
police or anything else. We refuse, of course,
to be blackmailed, and when he sees how hope¬
less his plans are he may perhaps make other
plans.’
That, so far as she can remember, is the kind
of thing that she said, trying at all cost to be
sensible. Whatever she had said, her words had
at least the effect of turning Pengelly’s attention
entirely upon herself.
He looked at her, she says, exactly as the little
clergyman of some remote country parsonage
might look when begging for odds and ends for
his Jumble Sale—a little humorous, a little earnest,
and very determined.
4 I don’t understand either of you,’ he said.
* Why should you use the word blackmail,
madam? I wish you’d look at the facts for a
moment. I think it very probable that you 11
hear no more of my brother. I don’t know how
you’ve disposed of his body, but I gather that
you have taken some pretty effective steps. It
the body is not found by the police I’m sure you 11
hear no more about it, for nobody will make any
inquiries about his absence. He was umversa y
loathed. He had not even a woman who really
cared for him, and Lord knows women will care
for anyone. That’s proved by the fact that it was
chap. xii AFFIRMERS: DENIERS 231
I whom he asked to come and inquire for him
to-night—when he knew I hated him. No, you’ll
have no inquiries. All that will happen will be that
a number of men and women will slowly realise that
at last they are free. There remains only myself.
And I ask so little—five hundred a year among—
how many of you is it? Four or five. And I dare¬
say I’ll pay some of it myself after a bit if I get
to like you very much. The truth about me is
simply that I’m lonely and have to earn my living
in ways that I detest. You can cure me of those
two ills. In return I promise to be a loyal, faithful
friend. You’ll grow so accustomed to me that you
simply won’t be able to do without me.’
He looked at Helen with all the intimate
humorous affection of old friendship. Then he
turned, speaking gravely to Osmund:
* What you mean, sir, with all that business of
affirming and denying I simply don’t understand.
I’ve been quite honest with you. I’ve attempted
to conceal nothing. I do think the world a rotten
place. I believe that we are a decadent race, that
we have failed and shall shortly return to the air
and water that has composed us. I find human
beings mean, treacherous, weak and cowardly.
But why that should irritate you I can’t conceive.
There’s nothing personal about it, I assure you.
You think differently. You’re an optimist,
although you don’t look one. Well, I don’t blame
you for it. I like you the better. Why should
we not agree to differ? ’
. Helen says that Osmund listened to all this
with an increasing disgust and irritation that was
BOOK II
232 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
extraordinary to witness. It was now, she believes,
that it was beginning to be driven in on her (just
as, almost at the same moment, I in the Circus was
realising this with Hench) that the events of the
evening had acted as the breaking of the last
barrier to Osmund’s restraint. For years he had
been holding the door against all the forces of
insanity and desperation. His killing of Pengelly
that evening had pushed the door in. And yet,
as I have already said, there was perhaps a wider,
clearer mind shining now in the middle of his
insanity than he had ever known before.
He looked at Pengelly with a loathing greater
than any that he had ever shown to his brother.
‘ You may not understand,’ he said quietly, ‘ but
my life long I’ve been fighting your kind of
beliefs. I know life to be noble and grand al¬
though I have myself made a failure of it. You
are only one of my enemies. It is you and
your kind who have brought the world to the
pass that it is in. You shan’t be let loose again,
I promise you, to ruin others with your dirty
doctrines.’
He looked around the room, then he went out
into the little hall, returned, flung back the bed-
room door. .
« Would you mind,’ he said courteously to
Peneelly ‘ going in there for twenty minutes?
The door from that room into the passage is
locked. I shall lock this door behind you. But
t will only be for twenty minutes. I intend you
no harm. It is simply that I want to speak to my
wife alone.’
CHAP. XII
AFFIRMERS: DENIERS
233
‘ Of course. As long as you please.’ Pengelly
walked into the bedroom. Osmund locked the
door behind him.
Osmund watched him go, then he went to
Helen, put his arm around her, drew her face to
his, and kissed her.
‘ Let’s sit on this sofa. I want to say one or
two things to you.’ He drew her down on to the
sofa and sat there with her, holding her close to
him.
‘ You gave those gloves to Dick? ’ he asked
her gently.
She didn’t know in the least to what he was
referring.
4 Well, if you didn’t, he took them. It doesn’t
matter.’ He put his hand under her chin and held
her face up towards his.
‘ You love him, don’t you? ’ he asked.
4 Yes,’ she answered.
‘ And he loves you? *
; Yes.’
How long have you loved one another? ’
She couldn’t tell him.
And you’ve never loved me? ’
She tried to explain. Love? What was it?
What did the word mean? She did not know.
But he nodded his head.
Oh yes, you know. You’ve never loved me,
but you stood by me through all those years . . .
all the time that I was in prison ... I think that
^*7 fine. But of course you would behave like
that, it’s your nature. Now tell me,’ he went on
very gently, ‘ if you can tell me, why did you marry
234 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS bookh
me in the first place, seeing that you didn’t love
me?’
Their closeness, the silence and intimacy that
there was now in the flat, after all the storm and
disturbance, above all, her knowledge that they
belonged to one another no longer, all these
things moved her greatly.
Very often the maternity that is so large a
part of a woman’s love is felt more strongly after
the affair is ended than it has been felt during all
its activity. There will be no things to do for this
man, no more watching or caring or tending, and
in that regret the best and noblest part of love
seems to linger. So Helen felt now. She had
never loved Osmund, but she had done so many
things for him, and now in another hour or so
she would do nothing ever for him again. And
then, even while she was feeling this, she remem¬
bers that she was suddenly aware of the things
in the room, the secretaire, the silver candlesticks,
the strange ugly splotches on the wall, and realised
that all these things had witnessed that action of
Osmund’s a short while before; she saw again
the man lying on the sofa, his foot hanging limply
t0< She g drew away from Osmund under an im¬
pulse so strong that it did not seem to be her own
He noticed it at once. Indeed in u ^anny
fashion, he seemed to know exactly what had been
m ^You have been feeling kindly to me, he
•j ‘ because we are parting, and at the same
time you have been thinking of what has been
chap. xn AFFIRMERS: DENIERS 235
happening here this evening. Now isn’t that
so? ’
She nodded her head.
‘ And it’s only an example of the way that
you’ve felt to me always, I know. I've always
known. Now we’ve only got a few minutes. We
shall never have a talk again. I-’
‘ J°hn/ she interrupted him sharply, * what
are you going to do? ’
She remembers that a sudden conviction of
instant danger swept over her—danger to Osmund,
danger to me, danger to herself. The candle-light
rustled in her ears, the floor swayed a little. She
caught his arm.
t J°hn, what are you going to do? ’
. Never mind, never mind,’ he answered im¬
patiently. ‘ What does the future matter? I’ve
done something irrevocable. I’ve no life of my
own any more, whatever way I go. And that’s
why I want to make myself a little clear to you—
so that you can think of me afterwards . . . look
baC Wk unc * e . rstand me a little.’
, f u^l 16 Sa ^ was suc ^ > m P ortan ce to Helen
a she has tried again and again since then to
remember exactly the terms of it. You must re-
mem er that I am giving it to you at second hand.
isten, Helen. I’ve never been on proper
erms with this life. I’ve never seen things
raig t. I ye always been, if you like to put it
a way, a little drunk.’ (He returned to this
analogy s h e says, several times.) 4 Drunk with
auty or one thing. Ever since, as a kid of six,
s ood with my old father between Penzance and
BOOK II
236 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
Marazion and saw St. Michael’s Mount in a
bronze haze and the sea purple and green around
it. If one thing’s like that, I thought, then every¬
thing must be. I was both realist and romantic,
a sorry position for anyone. But one thing I did
see clearly—that life’s a fight between the setters
up and the pullers down, the affirmers and the
deniers. I wasn’t sentimental about that. I saw
it in the deadliest earnest. Although I could play
about when I felt happy, I never had the slightest
sense of humour, as you know. Well, here was the
world busily engaged in the struggle between these
two forces. I threw myself into the fight. 1
tried different religions. I went, as you know, to
the Lepers’ Settlement in Candia. I was at sea
for two years, a Tommy in the Army—-all the rest.
I was a failure at everything because I was always
too angry. I couldn't keep my temper. Every¬
thing was always just wrong; the deniers were
always just winning or the affirmers were so
damned complacent that it made me sick. And
then I was mad sometimes. Crazy. I wouldn t
call it so, but sane people would. The skin ot life
seemed to break, and I saw through, saw through
into incredible beauty, but all of it out of reach, out
of touch. That made me angrier than ever. 1
made friends and lost them. They were always
23 d Of me in the end, afraid of my tempers and
furies and the scenes I made. Women too. They
were always tremendously attracted to me at first
j t u en frightened afterwards. They were
a " d u Pt ter than I was, even the worst of them,
bXthey didn’t want the things I want, didn’t need
CHAP. XII
AFFIRMERS: DENIERS
237
them. Oh God, how I needed them! Then
came the war. There I saw some of my glories
nearer at hand. But after it the deniers had it
all the time. Nothing was any good any more,
and just when everyone should have begun to
build everyone was pulling down the little bit
that remained. Then the jeerers, the mockers,
the idlers came in. I tumbled against them
everywhere. They laughed at me and I lost my
temper and there we were. I think I really
began to go a little queer then. Tiny things
maddened me. I saw nothing in proportion.
I don t know what you can have thought of me.
But whatever else you’ve thought, I know you’ve
never doubted my loving you. I know, too, how
it s irked you—how often you’d have preferred me
to hate you.’
. N°> Helen said, ‘ that isn’t true. If your
loving me had made you happy I would have been
content—but it didn’t.’
Happy! How could I be happy? How
can anyone be happy? ’
She recollects how he tossed his head here in a
sort of wild desperation, as though he were tied in
somewhere and couldn’t get out.
Happy? No, I’ve never been happy, never
°F one foment in all my life. Even when you
said you d marry me I knew that there was a catch
somewhere. When I’ve been gay like a
child, I ve felt that behind all the nonsense cata-
s rophe was lingering. I’ve never been able to
\ C ^Hything lightly. When I try to explain
w at s in my mind I talk sententiously like a
BOOK n
238 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
lecturer. I was always, from the very beginning,
at a disadvantage with you there, Helen, for you
are so made that you can’t endure sententious,
pompous people. How I longed not to be!
How often in Spain I’ve wanted to be so simple
and direct with you and didn’t know how to! ’
She says that her conscience smote her now
most terribly—she recalled so many times when
she had been impatient with him—wronging him
from her own crass stupidity. If she could only
have loved him, how much she would have under¬
stood.
‘ And you never realised,’ he went on quickly,
as though he realised how brief the time left to him
was, 4 what humiliation and isolation those two
years in prison brought to me. Coming to a
nature like mine the result was fatal. ^ They
separate you, utterly, for even you couldn’t know
_how could you?—what it is like to be different
from everyone—how you feel when people shout
to you “ Be like us! It is quite easy! ” or scorn
you, saying, “ How dare you be like that? ” when
you would give your soul to be like them if you
could! Or perhaps not—you have your own
vision of things, something apart and separate, an
angle for seeing life—perhaps you wouldn t lose it
even though you had your choice. I was normal,
though, in my love of you. I loved you just as
any man loves any woman—and you didn t love
me-_did you-ever-one little scrap? Did you?
• J p 9
Then he dropped upon his knees front of
her, had his arms around her. Because of his great
chap, xii AFFIRMERS: DENIERS
239
height, his face was level with hers, his eyes stared
into hers, beseeching her, begging her—this last
request.
And, miraculously, for a moment, the only
moment in all their lives together, she did love him.
She could never explain that afterwards, whether
it were her pity for him, her commiserating
maternity, or simply her sense that he was leaving
b er f° r a moment she loved him as he had always
wanted her to love him.
She forgot myself, she forgot the incidents of
that evening, she had for a brief fiery instant an
experience of what all her life with him might have
been, of how she might have saved him, yes, and
herself too, from all these consequences.
She felt the thrill of his own surprise at her
response. They kissed as they had never kissed
before, lip to lip, heart to heart, her hand on his
breast, his hand about her hair.
He got up, stood away from her, staring be-
yond her to the windows.
my dear,* he said. Then he went
to the bedroom door and unlocked it.
, ° r kcrsdf, a little thing pulled her back to me
—-the sight of my Don Quixote lying on the table,
bhe picked it up.
Pengelly came in.
,. aZ* k Cen as ^ ee P>* be said, and he looked be-
owl ^ glaSSCS tousled and sleepy like a little
Osmund said to him: * You’re coming with me.
We are going away together.’
Pengelly answered: ‘ Indeed we are not. I’ll
BOOK n
240 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
make you a prophecy. Within a week you’ll be
paying me my five hundred and glad to do it.
Within a month you’ll be loving me like a brother,
better than my own brother ever loved me. . . .
Good-night.’
He was at the door and through it. Osmund
was after him. Helen heard the little hall door
open, and then suddenly the whole flat was filled
with pandemonium—laughter—songs—cheers—
shouts. . ,
She heard Osmund’s voice; someone shouted:
‘ Yoicks! Yoicks! Tally-ho!'
A moment later she was herself in the passage,
and it seemed to her that the whole world had run
stark, staring mad.
CHAPTER XIII
THE PA RTY
It must have been strange indeed for Helen to
come from that quiet room, that intimate scene
thisal T l, V nt ° th - e rackct and ‘“fusion of
this absurd and fantastic company.
for Osmund 1 **“ m ° ment ’ h ° WeVer ’ th ° U g ht
this—that eh'" 6 ha i"' ea 1 t anything it had meant
thing was fitshTd n0t hlm n ° W Until this
had about K S“i . ^
f'" s ■**!
“A t^JSr b - 1 "s
p
R
242 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS bookh
ing itself at Major Escott’s, No. 3 flat—(who¬
ever Major Escott was). No, she was not pre¬
pared for any of those fantastic figures, Greeks of
old, and most of them drunk before they ever got
to the party at all.
The passage seemed to her to be filled with
maniacs. Some were pressing up the stairs, some
were pressing down. An extremely fat man,
dressed, as it seemed to her, only in a night-shirt,
with a wreath of bright green metallic leaves
pushed to one side of his bald perspiring head,
was crying out in shrill feminine tones: ‘Come on,
girls, we’re late. WeVe bloody late. Oh yes,
we’re very bloody late indeed! ,,
Around him, like smaller fish about a friendly
whale, were swimming a number of persons of
various sexes and of no sex at all. There were
two elderly
who looked extremely anxious and disturbed.
One very handsome youth with a gold fillet on his
hair and a tunic that displayed most of his person,
led a little body of worshippers up the stairs.
One anxious little man with an eyeglass con¬
tinued to repeat over and over again: But where
is Escott’s flat? It’s really too odd—we can
find his flat anywhere? ’
Helen found to her amazement that by the
time that she reached the flat-door both Osmund
and Pengelly were being accepted as members
CHAP. XIII
243
THE PARTY
nothing in such a crowd, and, in the general con¬
fusion, Pengelly would be a fool indeed if he could
not get away. She heard someone say to him:
‘ But it’s quite all right, my dear fellow.
You’ve got to come and drink his health. We’re
all welcome.*
A moment later she saw Osmund’s arm seized
by the very very stout gentleman.
‘ Come along, sir, come along, he’ll be de¬
lighted to see you. It’s Liberty Hall to-night—
we’re all going the same way.’
She was herself almost at once caught in with
the others.
A fierce-looking, extremely bony young woman
snatched at her arm.
‘ Where’s my husband? ’ she asked indig¬
nantly. You ought to know if anyone does.*
I m very sorry,’ said Helen, ‘ I’m afraid I
don’t.’
The young woman looked at her. ‘ I beg
your pardon,’ she said crossly, ‘ I thought you were
ary Petch. Come on. She’s got my husband
somewhere, and I won’t have it.’
In the middle of all her anxiety and distress
e sense of fantasy and bizarre incongruity that
had been growing within her ever since her return
to the flat that evening carried her forward.
Moreover, if Osmund and Pengelly were to be
involved in this party she must be involved too.
1 hey all moved up the stairs together.
On the next floor the door of a flat was open
and from within came sounds of extreme revelry!
Ihey all pushed in. Helen saw that this flat
244 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS bookh
was on the same plan as Osmund’s, but the sitting-
room that had, in his case, played its drama to the
tune of a few figures, a pair of silver candlesticks
and a triptych was, in this instance, packed and
crammed with people. The noise was deafening.
A gramophone was playing, everyone was shouting
and singing. Helen was pushed into a corner.
No one paid her the slightest attention. She
discovered that she was pressed close against a
thin and very melancholy-looking man in a tunic,
tights and sandals—rigid against the wall and
apparently extremely unhappy.
‘ Why ever did I come? ’ he said quite sud¬
denly. 4 I knew what it would be like., I knew
that I should hate it. And yet I came.’
Helen’s memory of the scene becomes very
clear at this point. She had an agonising con¬
sciousness of approaching disaster, exactly as
though someone had cried, through all the babel,
in her ear: ‘ Wait . . . you can’t escape it now . .
you can’t move-You are helpless. In another
second. ... .
Like a nightmare when you are caught on a
wide stretch of railway line, the train, with ever-
increasing roar and bellow, is pounding towards
you, your feet are glued to the rails, the shriek of
the whistle is in your ears, the huge black breas
of the engine covers your sight, there is one last
scream, and then the horrid impact. ... Her actual
position was near the open door. All the furni¬
ture had been pushed from the room-there were
no chairs; people were sitting on the floor. The
only witnesses to Major Escort’s taste were a series
CHAP, xirr
THE PARTY
245
of sporting prints, horses jumping ditches and
the rest, that vanished into a disturbing wall¬
paper of crushed mulberry overlaid with Chinese
temples. The little hall was packed with people,
and the bedroom, it seemed, also. The drinks
were in the kitchen and the bathroom. At least
it may have been so. I do not know how much
is from Helen in this description and how much
from my own reading about such parties in current
works of fiction—no novel of to-day seems com¬
plete without one.
Helen’s only thought was for Osmund, and
at first her eyes could not find him. She realised
that a number of people besides themselves were
sharing in the festivities without any knowledge
of their host. It seemed as though anyone might
drift in. This was before the time of the * gate¬
crashing ’ agitation in the Press, but she perceived
on this occasion what I in after years suspected,
that many a party prefers to be with its stranger
guest rather than without it because so often it is
the stranger guest who gives animation to what
would otherwise be too coldly a family affair.
She perceived, too, that although everyone was
making a great deal of noise no one seemed to be
very happy. At first, as I have said, she could
not find Osmund. Then to her astonishment
she saw him close to the distant window, his arm
round the shoulders of a girl with red hair and
almost no clothes, his eyes staring with a peculiar
fixed intensity—at Pengelly!
She turned to look at Pengelly, and found him
gazing upwards, his spectacles tilting forward to
BOOK n
246 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
the edge of his nose, looking into the fat flushed
face of an elderly woman who was apparently
threatening to pour champagne on to his head.
Now here is an odd thing. Helen knew that
the little man, although he was gazing up into the
silly face above him, was in reality conscious of
Osmund’s eyes, and concentrating all his energies
on some plan of escape. It was for a moment,
Helen said, as though she herself were Pengelly,
and she realised with a certainty of knowledge that
can belong only to your own consciousness of
yourself that now, in this moment, he was, for the
first time, frightened of Osmund. He had be¬
come quite suddenly aware that Osmund wasn’t
any longer, in the ordinary meaning of the word,
sane, and that, because he wasn’t sane, he followed
no longer the ordinary lines of cause and effect,
but that he lived in a new world in which all the
rules were different. Even as Helen looked at
him he dropped his eyes from the fat woman’s face,
and began to edge his way through the crowd,
and Helen saw quite clearly now that his soul said:
‘ I’ve got to get out of this; I am in danger.’
She saw then Osmund’s eyes follow him, and
she saw them command Pengelly to stop, and
Pengelly stopped there where he was, pushed
about and jostled by the gyrating crowd.
She wanted herself then to get to her husband.
Something at any moment might occur No one
could influence him save herself, and in that
thought she had a curious half-pathetic pride
She has told me how she wondered, as she looked
across that room at him, whether anyone else
CHAP, xin
THE PARTY
247
realised how supremely he was above and beyond
everyone else in that crowd—above and beyond
them all in beauty, in dignity, in the larger share
that he had of that divine fire—the fire that burnt
in him and made him a failure and an exile.
Gaol-bird and murderer—but the vision that she
had of him then was a true one.
The distance across the room between herself
and him was very great—she seemed to be quite
hopelessly wedged in against the wall. She found
that the melancholy gentleman next to her was
speaking to her:
This is utterly horrible,’ he said, ‘ and to
think that we are supposed to be imitating the
Greeks! ’
‘ Why don’t you go away then? ’ she asked
him, her eyes desperately watching Osmund.
She has told me since that if she were ever again
to meet that grave, melancholy man, walking
quietly in fitting clothes in any sober place, or
dancing madly wearing nothing at all, whatever
he was doing, wherever he might be, she would
recognise him. And she would remember ex¬
actly for ever every word that he said.
•1 ^ ^ ere > sa H, with the saddest of
smiles, ‘ to be a companion to my wife. That is
she dancing-*
He pointed to a little girl with dark bobbed
hair, a white garmenthalf slipping off her shoulders,
dancing with a fat young man; how she could
dance when there was no space to move upon was
difficult to explain, but dance she did with com¬
plete abandon.
BOOK II
248 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
‘ I am ten years older than she,’ he went on.
‘ She has just discovered it. For three years she
was quite unaware . . then broke off. ‘ Isn’t
it hot in here—and outside it is blowing up for
the worst snowstorm ever—and in Central Africa
they are dancing also,’ he added.
She didn’t reply. She was watching Pengelly,
who was edging his way slowly towards the door.
At the same time, she saw Osmund embrace the
red-haired girl with his arm still more tightly, and
she was aware also that he did not know that he
was even touching her.
It was her consciousness that he was ignorant
'of what he was doing that made her determined
to reach his side. So she began to fight her way.
And it was a fight. Many people had by this
time drunk a little more than they were quite able
to carry, with the result that personal histories,
sorrows, victories, tragedies, began to declare
themselves on every side. Osmund’s was not the
only murder committed in London that evening.
The sense of nightmare dreamily grew now upon
Helen’s brain, so that it really did begin to seem
to her as though presently she would wake in
their quiet cottage near Evesham, and she would
hear the birds twittering in the ivy, feel the cool
morning air swing in from the window, and then
see John Osmund in the bed beside hers lying
in his deep sleep, his head cradled in his hand.
In this room there was a big flat looking-glass
over the fireplace, and in this glass was reflected
through the open door, the little hall crowded with
people. How fantastic this crowd in the dis-
CHAP. XIII
THE PARTY
249
arrangement-of its fancy dress! As Helen saw
it through the glass it lost all appearance of
humanity; the cries, the movements, the staring
eyes, the naked arms and half-bare breasts, and
white knees and thighs gleaming with sweat,
these were part of inhabitants from another star
who, in some Wellsian fashion, had been shot,
bewildered and dazed, into this so different scene.
The noise was deafening, but, as in a thick forest,
beneath the glare and coarseness of the larger
forest life there is a cool furtive underworld pur¬
suing its own purposes, so now Helen, trying to
battle her way through to Osmund, encountered
subterranean conflict.
She had moved some steps forward when she
almost fell over a large stout woman who, seated
on the floor, was holding a large stout man by the
sleeve and preventing him from rising.
* ^ y°u dance with her,’ Helen heard her say,
‘ 1 go right off. You’ll never see me again—you
can make your mind up to that\ ’ She did not
seem to care whether she were heard by the general
company or not.
Helen, stumbling, caught the stout man by
the shoulder to save herself. ‘ I beg your pardon,’
she said. He paid her no attention.
« Carrie’—his voice was filled with tears—
I m only going to do the polite. You wouldn’t
wish me to--’
Yes, I would wish you,’ she broke in furi¬
ously, ‘ and you know I would too. Do the
polite! What do you say about that? Do the
polite. . .
BOOK n
250 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
Helen could not move unless this stout lady
moved. She murmured again: 1 I beg your par¬
don,’ and at the same moment she pitched over
the pile of cushions almost into her arms. Someone
saved her from going sprawling. It was a man.
For a moment they clasped hands. She saw that
it was Pengelly.
The bewildering absurdity of that was beyond
anything else that the evening had yet given her.
They stayed together; they could not move, and
breaking into their own urgency was the ridiculous
history of the pair at their feet.
‘ Mrs. Osmund,’ he said at once as though
there were no time at all to lose. ‘ Help me out
of this. If you help me I promise to bother none
of you again. When I give my word I mean it.
I’ve had enough of this.’ ,
‘ You’re frightened,’ she remembers that she
said to him. , , , ,
‘ Yes, your husband is mad. That has broken
mv nerve.’ Then he added breathlessly: I
wasn’t frightened until I came in here. When I
was alone in that bedroom I wasn t frightened
all. It was a kind of game that amused me but
now-all I want is to get away andl never s,ee him
again. You needn’t be afraid that 1 11 come
ba The stout woman had got up on to her knew.
« I don’t care who knows,’ she cried out. Where
were you two nights ago? Do you«££ej»
deaf and blind as well as dum • ,
,he's been doing all the last month, the little sly
chap. xin THE PARTY 251
The fat man sighed prodigiously. ‘ That isn’t
fair, Carrie. . . .’ He began an excited, tearful
protest.
‘You see,’ said Helen (she was, she remem¬
bers, herself now a little breathless), ‘ you ought
never to have come into this at all. Why didn’t
you leave us alone? ’
‘ I was his creature. For years I did the dirty
work. . . He broke off. ‘ To-night I thought
I d try a little bit on my own. See how it worked.
It hasn’t worked. I’m frightened of your hus¬
band, Mrs. Osmund. Tell him anything—that
I m not Pengelly’s brother—anything—tell him.
Tell him. Make him let me go.’
The fat woman had found a friend. * Come
here, Grace, and take a look at the meanest
liar-*
But, Helen said, ‘ we are all caught. Run¬
ning away is no good.’
Never mind,’ the little man begged. ‘ Help
me to get out of here. Help me-’
Helen looked up and saw Osmund at her side.
, lT C y stooc ^ the three of them, forced together
by the crowd on every side of them. Osmund
ooked at Pengelly. ‘ Haven’t you been here long
enough? he said. ‘ Aren’t you as weary of it as
I am? ’ '
Pengelly said: ‘ Let me go. I shan’t bother
you again. I’m sick of the whole thing. Let me
S®* • • .
What would have happened then between
them no one can say. Would Osmund have let
im go and so saved the catastrophe? Helen
252 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS bookh
could never afterwards be sure of what exactly
was in his mind just then, what he was seeing with
his eyes that wandered restlessly like an animal’s
up and down, in and out, around the room, and
yet never seemed to lose guard of their prisoner.
In any case, Pengelly might have gone, and
alone, at this moment, but no one will ever know,
for there was an interruption.
The noise was now frantic, but someone shut
off the gramophone, and as that background of
jazz faded away voices also fell. Then some
woman shouted at the top of her voice:
‘ We’re Greeks! We’re Greeks! We must
have a sacrifice! I’ll be Iphigenia! ’
Everyone seemed to be enchanted with the
idea and a little round tubby man who, Helen
thought, must be her host, prominent now for the
first time, came forward and cried:
‘Grand idea—come on, everybody. Well
have a procession, and an altar and everything.
They pushed a low little table into the centre
of the room, laid a purple cushion in front of it,
found an ancient guest with a white beard to be
[he priest, tied the hands of a pretty young girl
K^Kinrl hpr back and blindfolded her.
A numbe of tipsy men and women stood ,n
nur " oer V 1 backwards and for-
“ilk »«k to B k» b '«“ * dr “ ,,l “"
""Th„ Esiott, looMng^ - O—i
‘Hullo, you, sir you re ^ be Lord
biggest man in the place.
High Executioner.’
THE PARTY
CHAP# XIII
253
Osmund instantly, like a man moving in a
dream, went over to him.
‘ I don’t know what the hell your name is, sir,
but I hope you’re having a damned good time.
I’m jolly glad you’ve been able to come.’ Then
he turned and called: ‘ Hullo, somebody, where’s
the knife? ’
Someone had produced a carving knife. Every¬
one was laughing. Osmund stood there, the
knife in his hand, the girl kneeling in front of
him. Helen wanted to cry out: ‘ Stop! Take
that away from him. He mustn’t be free. . . .’
But there was another interruption. Someone
cried out: ‘ I say, Escott, do you hear that?
And then someone else said: * Bunny Warner
has seen a corpse to-night. None of your Greek
sacrifices. A real one. On the way up here.’
Everyone began to talk. The pretty girl, tired
of kneeling, got up from her cushion, freed her
wrists, and pulled the bandage from her eyes.
‘ What’s that? ’ 4 Bunny seen a murder? ’
Bunny done someone in? ’ Questions began to
break out from every side of the room. Everyone
had forgotten the game of the sacrifice. And
Osmund stood there, the knife in his hand, without
moving.
A young man, in ordinary evening dress, began
to talk from the fireplace.
Well, if you want to know, it wasn’t so awfully
much. I hadn’t meant to say anything about it.
All die same it gave me a kind of a turn.’
What was it? ’ 4 Oh, come on, Bunny,
out with itl * And Helen says that she too
BOOK II
254 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
wanted to echo: ‘ Yes, Bunny. Tell us what you
saw.’
He went on: ‘ Well, I don’t know whether I
rightly saw anything or not. I’m soberer now
than I was then as a matter of fact. It sobered
me up, I can tell you. I came in out of the
street and was just going to start up the stairs when
I saw a man standing up in the corner against the
wall.’
‘ What kind of a man? ’ asked somebody.
‘ Oh, I don’t know—an ordinary sort of a
feller. I asked him if he knew which Escott’s
flat was, because I was a bit squiffy and didn’t
want to go ring up the wrong man’s bell. Well,
he wasn’t too civil, and then I discovered that there
was another feller, all hunched up, sitting on the
bottom step.’
Some women gave a little scream and someone
else said: ‘ How perfectly horrible! ’
‘ I asked the feller if his friend was ill. No, he
said, only dead drunk, and another chap had
gone for a car to take him home. So I said all
right, carry on. But just then I thought I’d have
a cigarette, and I pulled out this thing ’—he held
up a lighter—‘and the flame went up, and 1
SaW The voung man paused. Someone cried: ‘ Oh,
Bunny, go on, go on! ’ There was a breathless
silence everywhere. Osmund never moved or
turned his head. > j
‘ Well, I swear that what I saw was a dead
man. You couldn’t mistake it. His eyes and
mouth and everything. I cned out: My God,
CHAP, xm
THE PARTY
2 SS
he’s dead! ” or something, and he said: “ No,
he’s only tight,” and then—well, I scooted up¬
stairs as fast as I could! ’
Exclamations broke out everywhere. 4 How
horrible!’ 4 Isn’t that awful!’ 4 Perhaps he’s
there now.’
But Helen had eyes only for Osmund. She
saw him swing round. The knife dropped to the
floor. Everyone was beginning to laugh and sing
again, but the gaiety was gone. Nothing could
restore it. Someone turned on the gramophone.
Nobody danced.
Someone cried out: 4 Come on, I’m going! ’
She fancied that then people began to push
towards the hall, but she couldn’t tell because, in
another moment, she was in the hall herself. In
a flash she realised it. Both Pengelly and Osmund
were gone.
CHAPTER XIV
FROM THE STARS DOWN
Sometimes, and even after this interval of time,
I still dream of those figures flying across the
empty Circus driven by the storm. The omni¬
buses are there, but filled with inquiring eyes,
while a skeleton policeman, his hand one huge
white glove, stands, arm outstretched, and all the
lights of a maddened world dance like flies upon
the dark walls of the houses. .
Overhead the black clouds pile as though they
would presently crash down upon this waiting,
dying world. The little running figures are
manikins rushing to hide in any dark hole that
offers— and they know that they are too late.
This dream has woven its pattern into my
waking life too, and Helen also has not escaped it.
I return here, however, to the moment when
myself pursuing Hench, I saw first little Pengelly,
then Osmund and Helen, vanish tomyamaz-
ment, into the gallery entrance of £«&lg
Theatre. Had I paused to think, I might have
found it my immediate duty to secure Hench, bu
the sight of Helen was enough for me What had
happened I could not conjecture, but I knew that
chap. xiv FROM THE STARS DOWN 257
the events of the evening were working now to
their climax, and in that climax I must play my
part.
It was by this time close on half-past ten, and the
performance was so nearly over that the attendant
had left the gallery pay-box, not supposing that
anyone would be so imbecile as to pay good money
for merely twenty minutes’ entertainment.
So I sped up the dark stairs and arrived breath¬
less at the door that opened on to the gallery.
I could hear beyond me laughter and the voices
of the chorus. A tall ancient with a row of medals
stopped me.
Standing room only,’ he whispered in a voice
combining military dignity and an affection for
beer.
4 All right,’ I said impatiently. 4 How much? ’
Show’s nearly over,’ he whispered. But I
pushed past him and went in. One dim electric
light hung at the back of the gallery. In front of
me everything was dark, and then beyond that a
blaze of light colours, moving figures, and a blare
of music. I could at first see very poorly. A
number of persons were standing behind the
wooden barrier. I could catch no glimpse of
Osmund or Helen or Pengelly.
I felt, I remember, lost and in despair. From
the moment’s vision that I had had of Helen’s
race as she hurried past me I knew that she was in
a panic of apprehension. What to do I knew
not.
. ^ rnoved cautiously along and tumbled right
into Osmund. He recognised me at once, even
s
258 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS bookh
in that half-light, and gripped my hand so tightly
that it was all that I could do not to cry out.
He whispered:
‘ Dick. . . . That’s good. I wanted to say good¬
bye to you. When the lights go out we will go too.’
I knew then that he was crazy in the sense that
Hench was crazy. A thousand impossible schemes
danced through my brain. What an absurd and
at the same time monstrous situation! Where
was Helen? Where Pengelly? And what was
Hench doing down there on the floor of the house?
Osmund was pressing me close against him. His
body was absolutely rigid, like iron.
‘ Let my hand go. You’re hurting me,’ I
whispered.
He released my hand, but gripped my arm
instead. I tried to peer beyond him, and then saw
that with his other hand he held Pengelly.
That seemed to me so absurd that it was all I
could do, I remember, not to break out loud into
hysterical laughter. There we were, the three of
us, held there while the business of the house went
forward—and there downstairs was Hench! What
incredible farce was it that we were now playing.
And yet I knew that to Osmund it was no farce,
but the proper conclusion to a long sequel of mis¬
fortunes now to be, at last, properly rectified.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the lignt,
could see Pengelly’s face more plainly. His fore¬
head glistened with sweat. Once and
wriggled his whole body as though to break away,
but he uttered no sound, nor did he look at
Osmund.
chap, xiv FROM THE STARS DOWN 259
I gazed, then, desperately about the house. I
could see now the long sloping line of the gallery
packed with people, the boxes on either side
beyond and below, and then, to right and left,
the farthest ends of the upper circle. On the
stage, as I shall remember to the day of my death,
a Spanish scene was being played. This was one
of those revues that our grandest and most indi¬
vidual impresario, C. B. Cochran, so pleasantly
provides for us. It had, I have no doubt, all the
individuality, gaiety, good temper and aesthetic
taste with which his personality colours our rather
pedestrian stage. I suppose that it had, but I am
no true witness, for I was never to see any scene of
it but this one, and, as you may imagine, my own
vision was, just now, very far from reality.
But I got the fantastic impression that this
Spanish scene represented the very spot where
Helen and Osmund in their Spanish sojourn had
been. What was there then? I can remember a
black tower rising in front of a purple sky.
At the foot of the tower a crimson booth filled
with oranges, and in the centre of the stage a
stone fountain tossing real water that splashed
its pleasant echo about the theatre. There was a
boat with tawny sails moored under the tower.
Up and down the steps of the tower, figures very
gaily attired were passing. In the foreground
or the scene a very slim woman in a black man¬
tilla was dancing—some men and women rattled
castanets.
... The scene, in its colour and light, was to me
like a nightmare. The figures that were passing
260 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS BOOK II
into the tower would never return. They were
leaving all that light and colour and sound for ever
behind them; and on the other side of the tower,
the side that we could not see, the water was black
and of a soundless depth.
Of a soundless depth! I pulled myself back.
I must do something—but what? It seemed in¬
credible that the three of us should be standing
fixed as though by strait-jackets in this mad
situation, while all around us the ordinary sane
world rolled forward, the ancient with his medals
whispering to the fireman, who was yawning as
though his jaws would snap; in front of me all
those heads, all fixed, as you could tell, in a sort
of senility of pleasure—that happy old age of the
intellect when the senses are lulled, the passions
srixs; "sa tT srt- a
ceased to dance, the stage was fihed with wht^ng
figures, the castanets snapped, the orchestra
gently titillated itself, humming, as it were,
tune over for its own pleasure.
But it was not theorchestra humming; Osmund
rd have » f, R
E,“ e bS»«; D fchC,on hnow that. I ne.et
chap, xiv FROM THE STARS DOWN 261
could laugh at anything. I can’t laugh at this
now. ... I ought to . . . you can laugh after¬
wards. . . .
‘ And all these damned Pengellys. ... I’d
finish the lot of them if I had time. I bet there
are scores more of them hiding under stones
somewhere. They and their kind. It would be
a new crusade . . . wipe them out.’
(I remember thinking at this point—Why
doesn’t Pengelly, if he can’t break away, shout
out, make a noise, call the attendant? He’s had
enough of this anyway by now, must have. Why
doesn’t he make the old boy with the medals fetch
the police and end the whole thing? Here we
have been all the evening circling round and round
with the police in the very centre of our circle,
and no one has ever said a word to them. As
though Osmund had hypnotised them. As a
matter of fact, I’ve wondered since then why Pen¬
gelly didn’t call out at this moment—but he had,
I suspect, too many little misadventures in his own
past to wish for any personal contact with the
police.. And though he was, I suppose, by now
beginning to realise his own extreme danger, he
still trusted to his wits to pull him out of his hole.
* * A tFl ! Sted) * n ^ act > J ust a to ° far.)
Osmund’s voice went on: ‘ I can’t see straight
now. You’d better look out, young Pengellv;
you re coming with me. We’re going for a long
ride You 11 be cold ... and then hot as hell
Its funny Dick, that with all my chances I
snouldn t have done better, but being put away
does you a lot of harm. It makes you different
262 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
from the men who haven’t been put away. You
can’t forget it, and they don’t forget it either. It
was bound to end the way it has. As angry as I
am sometimes—but these Pengellys, they deserve
all they get. There are a lot of them about.’
‘ Let go my arm, Osmund,’ I whispered fiercely.
4 And come out of this. Let Pengelly go. He
won’t interfere with you again. Come out of this.
Where’s Helen? ’
But hedidn’t letmyarm go, and I doubt whether
he had heard any of this until the last word.
4 Helen? Oh, she’s here. So you took her
gloves, Dick—as a love token. That upset me.
And you were kissing one another too. That upset
me. But I don’t blame you. She’s a very attractive
woman, and we’ve said good-bye—she and I.
Our whispering was beginning to attract
attention. A man in front of us, seated against
the barrier, turned round angrily and said Hush.
But what precisely happened then where we
stood I shall never know, for my eyes were suddenly
transfixed. Seated in the extreme right-hand seat
of the upper circle, in the half-light, visible to
me very plainly from where I stood, was Hench.
He must have moved from the pit to the circ e.
He was sitting forward, not looking at the
stage at all, his head between his hands. ^
^ My God! ’ I whispered to Osmund, there s
Hen Uc did not hear me_or, if he heard, did not
understand. His grip on my arm tightened
And now what was Hench going to do.
could see that his heavy fat legs moved restlessly,
chap. xiv FROM THE STARS DOWN 263
and that he jerked his head up from his knees and
then down again. He was not still for a moment.
On the stage, a man and a woman, close to
the fountain, were singing softly a love duet. The
lights had darkened—only the tower, now jet
black, stood forward against a sky thick with stars.
The fountain still rose and fell, its waters throwing
a silvery light.
I tried to pull my arm away. ‘ Let me go,
Osmund. There’s Hench down there. He’ll
be making some disturbance if I don’t get to him.
Let me go.’ I saw that Pengelly on his side was
wriggling and twisting. I could hear his little
suppressed pants.
But all I got for my interruption was from the
man in front, who, furious now, turned round and
let out in a seething whisper: ‘ If you don’t bloody
well be quiet I’ll call the attendant. What do
you^think I paid my money for? To hear you
But he had more than his money’s worth that
night, for on top of his furious whisper I saw that
Hench had sprung to his feet and was shouting!
I had for the last five minutes been expecting
something of the kind—indeed, in some way
that only added to the fantasy of the whole scene, I
seemed to hear him some distinct moment before
he began his interruption.
When the interruption actually came the effect
of it was striking enough.
Only twice before had I witnessed any scan¬
dalous scene in a theatre—once, when touring
France one Christmas with a Rugby football team,
BOOK II
264 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
in the Opera at Lyons there had been a deliberate
arranged attempt to spoil the debut of some
woman singer; the other when, at the St. James’s
Theatre in London, a gentleman in the stalls had
suddenly risen during the interval and begun to
take off all his clothes, succeeding, in fact, so
thoroughly that he was stark naked before the
attendants could get to him.
I remember on the second of these occasions
the astonished sense that we had that our world
was turning upside-down. Here we were pro¬
ceeding so gently on our ordered course when,
in a second of time, it was shown us that
order was maintained only by permission of the
authorities, who, from their cloudy seats, with a
contemptuous turn of the wrist, could change us
into pigs or rabbits or whatever suited their
humour. , _ , f ..
It was so now. I heard at first, before the
interruptions became more general, the words
that he shouted: . ... . .
‘ Sinners! ’ he cried out in his silly, piping
voice, breaking now to a hysterical shriek, God
is at hand! Murderers! your crime has been
witnessed!’ I remember that he repeated the
words ‘ God,’ ‘ Murderers,’ flinging out his arms,
staggering forward and almost falling over the
ridge of the upper circle into the dress circle
below him^uickiy, of coursej attendants were
running to him, but everywhere there was con-
fusion. g Nearly everyone in the gallery stood up
craning forward that they might see. There we
CHAP, xrv
FROM THE STARS DOWN 265
calls and cries from all over the theatre: ‘ What
is it? * ‘ What’s happened? ’ ‘ Who’s hurt? ’
‘ There’s a lady fainted ’ . . . and meanwhile the
pretty, silly duet continued in front of the dark
tower, the fountain gently splashing, and all the
stars in the sky sparkled with more than their
natural fervour.
I had for a moment lost sight of Hench. I
caught a glimpse of him again—the last that I was
ever to see of him—struggling with two attendants,
his head back, his collar and shirt torn, his chest
bare.
There was one last triumphant cry: ‘ We are
lost—lost, lost! ’ ending in that silly feminine
shriek that took all dignity, I fear, from his
prophecies. Poor Hench! For all that trouble
and agony there were only in the morning news¬
papers two lines, speaking of a disturbance at the
Trafalgar Theatre, and adding that the gentleman,
after being detained, was found to be suffering
from a nervous breakdown and was permitted to
go to his home.
Hench became later, I believe, an itinerant
preacher—very popular at seaside resorts in the
summer, and, so far as I am aware, no mention of
Pengelly’s death ever passed his lips again.
The importance for us of his outburst lay in its
effect on Osmund. Around us, as I have said,
people were rising on every side, exclaiming,
asking questions, some nervous persons leaving
the theatre.
Osmund turned also as though to go. I swung
free of him, and Pengelly almost did the same. He
266 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
BOOK II
was close to me now and I could see his distress.
One thing very disastrous for him had occurred.
In his struggles to free himself his spectacles had
in some way been jolted off his nose. His face,
now dripping with sweat, and without the glasses,
was shining with terror! His eyes were never still,
his mouth moved ceaselessly, and he was always
moistening his lips with his tongue.
He was close to me now, and he gasped: ‘ For
God’s sake . . . help me out of this. . . . The
man’s mad. He’ll do in the lot of us. And my
glasses—they’ve fallen—I’m blind without them
_I’m helpless. Find them—for God’s sake,
find them.’
I had, Heaven knows, little reason for sym¬
pathy with the man, but I felt then that the one
thing that mattered was to find those spectacles.
I dropped down on to the dusty floor and began
to grope. I wondered, even as I searched, why
Pengelly didn’t call loudly for help, and I still am
wondering. I can only suppose, as I have already
said, that he had the best of reasons for not wish¬
ing any public attention drawn to himself. But
in fact, while I was on my knees in the darkness,
every kind of question was crackling in my brain.
Where was Helen? What should we do if
Osmund went amok and ran riot over the gallery?
And again—where, where was Helen? It was
only weeks later that I remembered to ask her
that question, and found that she had been playi g,
on the further side of Pengelly, the same sort of
part as I and suffering much the same ag.tat.on.
? Indeed the antics of all of us would by now
chap. XIV FROM THE STARS DOWN 267
have caused attention had it not been for Hench’s
disturbance.
But now things moved fast, for Pengelly jerked
himself free, and had slipped in an instant to the
door. Osmund had followed, I with him. Pen¬
gelly might have escaped, and my story have had
a very different ending, or possibly no ending at
all, had it not been that he was confused by a
group of women who, leaving the theatre because
of Hench’s outcry, were standing in a silly bunch
at the stair-head cackling like geese.
He could not see; the world was a mist before
his eyes; he turned to the right instead of the left,
pushed back a door, and stumbled upwards to the
roof. Although this door was marked 4 Private,’
and was, I suppose, in general, locked, it was open
enough now, but dark. Close behind Osmund,
I met, at the same moment as he, a blast of the
wind, went after him to find him on his knees
by the door-ledge, peering forward into the
darkness.
I stood beside him and stared about me. It
was a strange enough scene. In front of me and
around me was the upper world of London. In
spite of the blackness of the sky, heavy and thick,
as though roll upon roll of velvet were pressing
down upon our heads, in spite also of the snow that
was now beginning to fall thickly and was stroking
my cheeks with a million chilly fingers, the scene
was lit with the trembling, jumping, witch-like
illuminations of the electric sky-signs.
I was, in fact, almost on a level with one of
them—a vast rose that opened its petals slowly,
BOOK II
268 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
luxuriantly, to allow a thin, tapering bottle of scent
to emerge and return, then closed again. All about
the crimson and gold of this sign the heavy black sky
was illuminated; but for the most part the re¬
flections in the sky were from unseen lights, and
it was as though London itself were leaping and
jumping to see whether it could touch the sky with
its golden fingers. I could see no sign of Hench.
A moment later I turned to find Helen had joined
us.
Osmund saw her.
‘ Go back, Helen,’ he said. ‘ Haven’t we said
good-bye already? Go back.’
She caught his arm. ‘ John, come with me.
Let the wretched man go. You have frightened
him enough. Come home with me, John.
Come home. Come home.’ Her voice trembled
in its urgency. She must have seen that I was
there, but I don’t think that I even existed for her
just then.
‘ Home? ’ he answered, and I remember the
scorn he put into that word. ‘ Home? I have
none. I belong to nothing, to nobody. Let me
finish with this little swine and I’ll die happy.
One virtue equals one crime. Isn’t it so? Go
back, Helen, you’ve no place here.^ The storm
will blow you off your feet, and it’s a long way
to fall. Did you hear what Hench said? He
damned the lot of them. Well, I’m damned with
the rest, but I’ll take that little rotter with me.
He shan’t deny his Maker more than another five
minutes.’ Then he called: ‘ Hi Pengellyl
Where are you? . . . Come out and join your
CHAP. XIV FROM THE STARS DOWN 269
brother. I’ll stuff your mouth with snow to stop
your lying words! ’
He started off across the flat of the roof.
I gripped Helen’s arm. ‘ Stay here, Helen,’
I said, ‘ you can do no good by coming. A hurri¬
cane blowing up. Wait. . . . I’ll bring him
back.’ Something like that. I spoke inco¬
herently. Twenty minutes later and all our
destinies would have been changed. The per¬
formance over, the fireman or another would
have come to discover what we were about. As
it was, Hench’s interruption had drawn them all
down to that part of the theatre.
Eerie experience enough, plunging about on
that roof. The storm was indeed blowing up,
and the little squat chimneys, the black peaks of
the roofs, hanging so narrowly over Little Wind¬
mill Street, seemed to bend and swing with the
storm. As I moved I saw to my right an aperture
from which light was streaming, and found that
it was the small room whence the projectors
flung their colours upon the stage. I caught
for an instant a view from the blackness of this
roof through to the stage, little figures dancing
upon it, and a crimson curtain swinging backwards
as I looked.
But my business was with Osmund, and I
stumbled along, scarcely able to keep my feet
for the storm.
I had a moment just then, I remember, of
intense loneliness and fear. I was, I suspect, a
trifle off my head like the rest of them by this time.
I could hear nothing but the whistle and shudder
BOOK II
270 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
of the storm. My eyes were blinded with snow,
but behind the blindness was the reflection of the
dancing lights. All London seemed to be leap-
ing to get at me, and yet around and about me the
wind was tearing to pull the city off its feet. In
another moment perhaps it would succeed. A
great exhilaration seized me. London seemed to
be spinning on the Circus for its axis, and all the
little buildings, the toy omnibuses, the dolls of
men and women, were swinging too. Tug—tug
—tug—totter—totter—totter. The petty pile
of brick and mortar was bending, swaying. . . .
Over it must go, tossed into the air like smoke,
spraying for one moment the firmament with its
dust, gone then beyond the sight of man!
I shouted ‘ Osmund! Osmund! Osmund! ’
I waved my arms to push the snow from my eyes
and my mouth. But all the adventures of the
evening seemed to crowd into this moment.
Yes, I suppose I was mad like the rest, and,
for an instant, had torn the curtain aside and seen
through into reality beyond.
But mad only for an instant, for in another
moment I stumbled right upon Pengelly. He
was crouching against the wall. When I touched
him he screamed. ‘ Leave me alone, you blasted
_’ Then he saw that it wasn’t Osmund.
‘ Here, get me away! I can’t see. I can’t see
a thing. I’ve lost my glasses I daren’t move.
Oh, for God’s sake get me away! ’
He clung to me then, holding my thighs, his
round face now dark, now illuminated with the
flashing lights, turned up to mine.
chap.XIV FROM THE STARS DOWN 271
I can’t see. Oh, sir, I’ve meant no harm. I
don’t want to die. It isn’t right that I should.
. . . I can’t die. . . . I’m not ready.’
A moment later Osmund was upon us. He
bent down and dragged
him to his breast.
‘ Friend . . .’ I heard him say—‘ Friend or
enemy. . . .’ I tried to stop him. He was
altogether unaware of me. I heard him sigh,
then he lurched forward with Pengelly in his
arms.
What happened then? I am still troubled with
uncertainty. It seemed to me, I fancy, as now I
look back, that a firm hand held me where I
was. I do know that it was most bitter cold and
that the wild snowstorm made it seem that the
roof was moving beneath me and that the Circus,
with its lights, its figures, came whirling upwards
like the heaving side of the very globe itself.
I never heard Pengelly cry. There was a
silence, a blindness, and, groping, I touched
Helen’s hand. ...
Later the bodies were found, the snow already
winding down upon them, in a yard behind the
theatre. We told some story, Helen and I, that,
finding the door open, they had climbed, laughing,
on to the roof, tripped on the uneven surface, tried
the one to save the other, and pitched over.
I remember also that, later, after the finding of
Pengelly up. He held
BOOK II
272 ABOVE THE DARK CIRCUS
the bodies, Helen, I, and two policemen passed
through the Circus, and I saw the little shabby
woman arriving to take her blind man home. She
was collecting carefully the coins out of the cup.
I heard them chink.
That, then, was the end.
Next morning it was, I remember, as though
a door had softly, finally, closed upon a room that
I was never again to be permitted to enter. Of
that storm and passion all that remained were two
short paragraphs in the papers, one concerning
Hench, the other concerning two careless (and
probably tipsy) revellers. I never saw Bullcr
again, nor do I know to this day how he rid the
world of the elder Pengelly’s body.
And was that room real? Had I ever seen it
_the secretaire, the lovely Limoges triptych, the
silver candlesticks, the peach-coloured rugs? Had
it been the hallucination of the starving wanderer
that, thanks to later good fortune, I shall never be
ae ain? No, I know well enough that it was real,
for, happily married though Helen and I are, we
carry, and shall always carry, John Osmund along
with us. And the five rosy volumes of the Quixote
are on my table before me as I write.
By HUGH WALPOLE
ROGUE HERRIES
A Novel
Demy 8vo. ios. 6d. net. Leather, 15s. net.
PRESS OPINIONS
“The canvas is huge, but something is happening, there is
movement, colour, life, in every square inch of it. There is not
one tired, listless page. . . . It is thundering])’ alive. . . . Rcgue
Herries is a grand tale, a real full-time man’s job in fiction, and
everybody should read it. . . . It is fiction running on all six
cylinders and of a staggering horse-power.”—J. B. Priestley in
the Graphic.
“As a feat both of knowledge and of imagination the book is
huge.” —Gerald Gould in the Observer.
“Mr. Walpole’s Rogue Herries is in the grand tradition. It
has its magnificence. The book is big and full-blooded and
picturesque, with a wild beauty peculiarly its own. . . . Mr.
Walpole’s greatest achievement.” — Ralph Straus in the
Sunday Times.
“A glorious crowded romance. ... It grows and spreads
wuh an extraordinary vitality, and the more it grows the stronger
is its grip.” —Horace Thorogood in the Evening Standard.
“Strange, interesting, full of beauty, tenderness, and romantic
episodes. . . . A fine novel. . . . Almost every page bears
evidences of imagination, power, and skill.”— Marjorib Bowen
m the Morning Post.
. “ Most moving and unforgettable romance.” — S. P. B. Mais
in the Daily Telegraph.
LONDON : MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
1
ROGUE HERRIES
PRESS OPINIONS —continued
“It is a great story Mr. Walpole has to tell. I think it is the
greatest he has ever told—and though the telling fills 736 pages
one lays the book aside when the end is reached with that
contented regret which is the sure and certain sign of success
and satisfaction.”—W. R. Calvert in the Daily Dispatch.
« Rogue Herries is a diamond of many facets, all worked upon
with extraordinary skill. ... A great novel, a great jewel in
the splendid diadem of English literature.”— Illustrated London
News.
“ Rogue Herries contains some of the best things Mr. Walpole
has yet written. He has stayed the course, a course as long,
arduous and rewarding as anything proposed to himself by a
contemporary novelist.”— Week-End Review.
“ Remarkably spontaneous and vital. Mr. Walpole has never
turned his varied gifts to an ampler or better purpose. —
Spectator.
“Not only a profound study of human character but a subtle
and intimate biography of a place.” Daily Mail.
“A memorable piece of work which is definitely a notable
addition to recent fiction .”—Country Life.
To be published in the Autumn of 1931
JUDITH PARIS
A further volume of the Chronicles of the
Herries Family
LONDON : MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
2
THE NOVELS OF
HUGH WALPOLE
Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net each.
Pocket Edition. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, 3s. 6d. net.
Leather, 5s. net each.
HANS FROST
“Here we assuredly meet Mr. Walpole at his very best.”— Guardian.
THE SILVER THORN
A Book of Stories
“All of very high quality.”— Spectator.
■ WINTERSMOON
“Shows Mr. Hugh Walpole at his best.”— Times Literary Supplement.
HARMER JOHN
“One of Mr. Walpole’s most courageous and most beautiful books."—
Observer .
PORTRAIT OF A MAN WITH
RED HAIR
“The reader will not be able to lay the book down until he reaches the
last page.”— Daily Mail.
THE OLD LADIES
“ An unforgettable picture of obscure and poverty-stricken age. • • . A
book that has features worthy of Balzac.”— Observer.
THE CATHEDRAL
“ Perhaps the best novel of ecclesiastical life that has appeared since the
days of Trollope. . . . It is powerful, and moving.”— Nation.
THE YOUNG ENCHANTED
11 A very delightful story, fresh and ingenious.”— English Review.
THE CAPTIVES
“ 4 The Captives * is a great achievement”— Observer.
THE GREEN MIRROR
,4 A fine, persuasive, and well-shaped book.”— Pal! Mall Gazette.
THE SECRET CITY
“ A masterly piece of work.”— Observer.
LONDON : MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
3
THE DARK FOREST
4 4 A novel of extraordinary beauty and power/*— Review of Reviews.
FORTITUDE
“Powerful it is, strong meat for babes, but never gloomy, certainly
never morbid. The chief persons of the tale enthral one/*— Morning Post.
MARADICK AT FORTY
“‘Maradick at Forty’ is an exceedingly clever piece of work/’—
Observer.
THE DUCHESS OF WREXE
“ ‘ The Duchess of Wrexe ’ is a fine and serious piece of work. Daily
Telegraph.
THE WOODEN HORSE
“ 4 A book that will hold the attention and cling to the memory. It has
revealed a writer who should go far. Standard .
MR, PERRIN AND MR. TRAILL
“There can be no doubt that you will be missing a very great deal if
you miss ‘Mr. Perrin and Mr. Traill .'"—Bookman.
THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
“ It is a fine theme, finely executed.” — Times.
(With J. B. Priestley)
FARTHING HALL
44 Good, rattling, entertaining novel/'— Times.
£cras£ morocco. Crown 8vo. 6s. 6d. net.
THE CATHEDRAL
Globe 8vo. 2s. net.
FORTITUDE
Crown 8vo. 5s. net.
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
{English Men of Letters )
LONDON : MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
4
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